


High Noon

by Cainhurst, FaiaSakura, LambieLamb, Linnorm, lyefish (belgianblue), orphan_account, Proserpineceres, sbuckwheat



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Ass painting, Clergy kink, Educational, French is a gender, Hate, Hate Pining, Humour, Hung Viktor, Ignored baggage, Improper use of Language, Improper use of viktors name, M/M, Masturbation, Mayonnaise-Freeform, Pining, Ravioli and 12 cokes-Freeform, Second person POV, Spoon - Freeform, Twilight AU, Viktor spelled with a q, gratuitous descriptions, improper use of rosary beads, no chads were harmed in the process of writing this fic, thirst, thirsty Yuuri
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-10-31 08:38:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 23,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10895685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cainhurst/pseuds/Cainhurst, https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaiaSakura/pseuds/FaiaSakura, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LambieLamb/pseuds/LambieLamb, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linnorm/pseuds/Linnorm, https://archiveofourown.org/users/belgianblue/pseuds/lyefish, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Proserpineceres/pseuds/Proserpineceres, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sbuckwheat/pseuds/sbuckwheat
Summary: An impossible romance, light and darkness intertwined.Will love survive even in death?Will Yuuri Swan find his soulmate in the bland city of Spoons where he is damned to live?Follow for more ✩ d a r k - e m o - s o f t - g r u n g e ✩





	1. First Sight

                                                                

A dark grey sky greeted you when you first stepped into the small town of Spoons, Michigan. You came here to study after finishing your bachelor's degree in Religious Arts last spring in Japan.

Even though you loved your home country with all your heart you had to leave in order to achieve your dream to become a master in spoon and flower pot painting. There was only one school that offered such a master degree and of course that school just had to be in this un-picturesque town.

 

Spoons was a small town near Detroit, and it existed under the constant cover of clouds. It seemed to rain here more than any other place in the United States of America. And it was from this town and its gloomy, omnipresent shade that you had turned towards to achieve your lifelong dream. It was this town you exiled yourself to, an action you looked upon with great horror.

 

You detested Spoons the moment you set foot out of the airport, the darkness and hustle a strict contrast to peaceful seaside Hasetsu. You had loved Hastesu. The sun, the soft seaside atmosphere, your mother’s cooking and your small family dog. However it had been choosing between your dreams and your comfort, and the decision had been made before you could spend too long marinating in your anxiety.

 

Your name was Yuuri Toshiya Isabella Mari Swan and you had raven black hair, which shone in the sunlight, not that Spoons had any sunlight, and amber eyes like burning gold. Everyone thought you look like famous figure skater Yuzuru Hanyu. You tell them you’re not related to him but you wish you were cause he’s absolutely gorgeous. A lot of people say he’s a vampire but you scoff at that because vampires don’t exist- if they did Yuzuru would definitely be one- he’s a God. Your teeth were straight (only straight thing in you to be honest) and white and you had golden Japanese skin. Even though you had been raised in a very religious manner, you liked to dress in a way that showed off your own personal tastes- you were wearing a crop top, with inscriptions on it that were as gold as your dime in a dozen glowing skin, which was clear even when you didn’t use foundation, you were very lucky.

 

It was raining even as you made your way towards your new home, you saw nuns on the side of the road staring your crop top which was too revealing for this small religious town called Spoons, and disgruntled by their rudeness you put your middle finger up at them. They gasped, in shock. You felt a bit guilty about your behavior but you remembered that having perfect abs while wearing a crop top gave you the right to be rude.

 

After a few more minutes you finally reached your destination - an old building that looked so ancient that you are sure it was older than any resident of Spoons.You entered the building and looked around for the door that led into the small apartment you had to call home from now on. Finally finding it you entered.

 

The apartment looked as bland as the whole city and you decided that you couldn’t spend a night here without at least putting some posters on the walls. Unfortunately posters weren’t really the thing you thought of bringing with you from your hometown so you decided that you had to go outside again after all.

 

Unexpectedly you decided against the posters when you went to the shops after all, and bought rosaries and crosses instead. It was a blessed day. You always had a thing for them because they looked really nice and you like how the rosary beads felt in your hand. The round objects reminded you of the bright round sun in Hasetsu and once again you were filled with loathing for this gloomy town called Spoons. After nailing the crosses to your bedroom walls you felt more satisfied, and you debated whether you should buy more or go to greet your new neighbours.

 

You thought about that for at least half an hour, going back and forth with your decision, and after wasting as much time as you possibly could have you finally decided on something else. Thinking for so long had made you really sleepy and you just went to bed instead.

* * *

 

The next day you woke up early enough to go and get a big breakfast at your school’s cafeteria. The school you were going to was known as the Nikiforovian School of Religious Art. It was a large white building with swirling golden domes reminiscent of the onion domes found throughout Russia. You wanted to stand outside longer to stare at the magnificent architecture but were rudely interrupted when someone loudly called your name, making several heads turn.

When you turned around you were greeted with the smiles of five individuals who looked quite unique for the boring town called Spoons. Like five-lipilits or whatever from ‘The Shining.’ These other people, who you supposed were students, were still smiling at you, ‘Do they want to be friends with me?’ you wondered.

 

“Er, hello?” You said awkwardly, jamming your hands into the pockets of your ripped jeans, and pushing aside your red and black plaid shirt. Their stares made you feel more nervous, as if they were scrutinising you and trying to define your worth. You wanted to go back to your cross covered room and sleep, you wanted your dog Vicchan. You really weren’t enjoying yourself in Spoons at all.

 

“You are the new student, right?” the red headed girl, who was standing in the middle of the group, asked. “I’m Mila and that’s Georgi, Sara, Michele and Emil.” She pointed at the other four as she was saying their names. You wonder how you are going to remember all these names, all the sudden information was a bit too much for your tired brain.

 

You smiled hesitantly, reaching for the rosaries in your pocket and running your fingers over them nervously. It was a bad habit, but it helped you calm your nerves. “Nice to meet you guys.” You purposely didn’t say their names, realising you’d forgotten them within the first few seconds of the girl saying them. But anyway, you thought, they are secondary characters in the glorious story that was your life, they probably didn’t even have an Imdb page.

 

The non-descripient black haired man grabbed your arm, and you watched in fascination as purple eyeshadow dripped down his cheek, mingling with the rain water, because it was raining. It’s always raining in Spoons. You debated whether you should mention his running make up but decided against it realising that you required basic-ass friends to get through your exciting life and the plot, and mentioning how dramatic his running makeup looked would be slightly rude. You smiled instead, hopefully honest, and hopefully not resembling an awkward grimace. The black haired man, with the spike that could probably disembowel you on his head smiled back at you. They started walking, and you realised with a terrifying start that Spike Head was dressed like he walked straight out of a MCR convention. Spike Head was the perfect side character, and you decided to mentally cherish him and keep him close so you can cry about your future crushes to him. Also you decided to nickname him Spike Head because you were obviously Team Spike while watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer- after all who would choose the bland storyline of Angel against the steamy enemies to lovers relationship that Buffy and Spike had together? There were no biases present here at all. Nope, not any. At all.

 

It didn’t take you too long before you arrived to the school’s cafeteria. The redhead - Mira you believed - lead you and The Gang **™** to the table in the middle of the crowded room and your tiredness hit you again, the ten minute long events of the morning forcing you to sit down. You realised you needed to lift more. Thankfully you somehow chose the right table and the others sat around you, still smiling. But you still had no food. You were an idiot. Wait can’t you get food? You were in a cafeteria after all! Why did you sit without getting food first anyway?  How does it work in the US; don’t you have to stay in line for like 40 minutes to get food? All these questions ran through your head as you further questioned whether you should rise. You didn’t rise, you just looked around and realised that your ‘friends’ were pulling out their lunches. You felt a pang of something go through you, probably hunger. Possibly jealousy. You understood it was completely irrational to feel angry at your side character best friends for not guiding you, but here you were… irrationally angry.

 

“Yuuri! You don’t have lunch!” Basic friend number four, who had a really nice beard, said, and you turned to squint at him. Of course you didn’t have lunch, did basic friend number four _just_ fucking open his eyes. You grunted softly in response.

 

“You should go up to the cafeteria and get some! It might even act as a catalyst to further this plot!” Mira said. You grunted again, acknowledging her excellent if slightly meta point, and dusting off your plaid red and black shirt and ripped jeans, with the rosary in your pocket, you started to rise. And that’s when it happened- the plot progression.

 

And damn did plot progression have a pretty ass. Plot progression walked into the cafeteria the moment you rose from your seat and was surrounded by his own gang which consisted only of beautiful people. You noticed straight (or in this case honestly not straight at all) away that he had a butt sculpted by the Lord himself neatly packed away in tight leather pants. You have never seen such a butt in your whole life and if you weren’t interested in men before this would have been the moment you started to question your sexuality. The leather stretched perfectly over both cheeks and left little room for imagination, putting the plump curves on display for everyone to see. The butt reminded you of Michelangelo’s David - he possessed the same grace and firmness you always admired in that particular sculpture and you honestly couldn’t believe there weren’t people fainting at this sight.

 

Détacher ton regard de ce glorieux postérieur ne fut pas chose aisée, cependant un autre élément du physique divin de Plot Progression attira ton attention, le bout de ses mèches de cheveux effleurant le haut de son délicat fessier. En relevant les yeux, tu découvris la cascade étincelante qu’est la crinière de P². Ses cheveux reflétaient la lumière des led de la cantines, le soleil toujours absent en cette triste bourgade, avec l'efficacité d’une boule à facettes l’entourant d’un halo aveuglant de magnificence. You realised you were thinking in french because you were too trilingual for this world, although you couldn’t actually speak french. You decided to google translate your thoughts to share them with eventual mind readers, you weren’t a monster after all. It went something like: ‘To detach your glance from this glorious posterior was not easy, however another element of the divine physique of Plot Progression attracted your attention, the end of his locks of hair brushed the top of his delicate gluteus. Looking up, you discovered the sparkling cascade that is the mane of P². His hair reflected the light of the canteen led, still no sun in this sad town, with the effectiveness of a faceted ball surrounding him with a blinding halo of magnificence.”

 

Finally, it felt like it took ages but _finally_ plot progression met your eyes from across the room, and you felt like cupid just loosened an arrow and struck you at that moment. If cupid was hate-pid. Not only in your heart, but it seemed your dick was affected too. Because you had a hate boner. Because you were filled to the brim with rage- it was absolutely unfair that anyone in this world would have gorgeous blue eyes, that are even more gorgeous than the summer sky after rainfall, and the ocean on the sandy beaches of Australia. It was unfair that even the stupid description of eyes bluer than limpid tears didn’t apply because holy shit, there were at least fifty shades of blue in there, and you wore glasses, so you weren’t even sure how many shades you’d missed out. Plot progression was staring back at you unwaveringly, and you were reminded of that time you had jumped into the sea and opened your eyes underwater, exposing them to the salty onslaught. This was what eye-contact with plot progression felt like. His eyes were bluer than any paint shade you’d ever seen and surely those eyes could make you kneel- kneel over so you could stab his knees that was- but kneel all the same, and you’d kneel all day, all night willingly if you could continue this eye contact for the rest of your life. If this was a bad love song you’d be waxing poetic in your head, but alas this wasn’t a bad love song. Just your sad, sad thought process. You realised dimly that eventually this moment would end, Double P (Plot progression) would look away and you would be forced to live your life never seeing blue that bright ever again; all the colours sapped out of the world just because you had decided to stand and meet eyes with Double P.

 

In that moment you hated him even more. Double P had ruined your life, and you decided that you were going to do something about it.

 

It was Mira who interrupted your inner monologue on Double P’s surreal beauty. “Yuuri, you should hurry and get lunch, classes are about to start in half an hour and you don’t want to be late on your first day, right?”

She _was_ right, you really didn’t want to be late, especially not on your first day. She paused, following your line of gaze and her eyes landed on the group of The Most Beautiful People in the World™. She looked back and forth between you and the group, huffing out a small laugh.

 

“Those are the Cullens.” she said. “Victor and Christophe Cullen, Maswissmi and Otabek Hale and the small blonde one is Yuri Cullen. They all live together with their adoptive parents Father Yakov Cullen and his wife Lilia.They’re all dating each other as well, which is weird but I guess since their father is the headmaster they get away with it. And honestly they’re old enough and professors. It shouldn’t be a problem at all. I don’t even know what I’m saying. I just think it’s not fair that our professors are that hot and dating each other.” - “So they’re all gay?” you assume. “I don’t know if they all label themselves as gay but they sure are in a gay relationship. Even Victor - since he is kinda married to the Lord. Not even our long haired god is available.” You nodded absentmindedly. His name was Victor. Stupid name - he didn’t like the sound of it and his japanese accent would make it harder to mo.. say it. “I’m gonna get some food now for real.” You announced after you thought some more about how to pronounce the name without making a complete fool out of yourself.

You turn back to the beautiful group™, making sure you don’t catch the silverette’s - Viquetor’s - eyes again, and hurriedly you started to make your way towards the food aisle. You couldn’t help but feel eyes boring into your back, and maybe it was paranoia, maybe it was something else, but for a brief second you turned around to confirm your fears.

He was looking at you, his eyes like melting sapphires and you wanted to look away, you wanted to so desperately break eye contact.

 

Luckily you walked into another student right that moment and broke the eye contact because of that. Stupid student. Should have watched where you were going before walking right into you. You didn’t want to piss random people off so you muttered a soft apology before you finally made your way up to the cafeteria’s counter.

 

As you were looking at the display a pang of of homesickness rushed through your body. It all looked so foreign and you didn’t even know what food to get. You suddenly missed the warm familiarity of a typical japanese breakfast but you couldn’t spot any rice or miso soup and not even a salted mackerel was in sight. Because you were used to having salted mackerel in the school cafeteria on Hasetsu. The small town of Spoons didn’t fail to disappoint you at any given time of the day.

 

You sighed choosing a bagel and orange juice, paid and went back to your seat, deliberately not looking at the direction you knew the silver haired man was sitting. You could feel your anger growing as you viciously took a bite of your bagel, taking out your rage on the poor food item. The bagel was too firm, your teeth hurt from trying to chew on that bagel. Your aching teeth filled you with more rage. Somewhere in your mind a voice crooned: ‘Mmm get that bagel, Yura.’ You ignored the voice, it was leading you astray from your initial thoughts of burning hatred against Binktop and his absolutely magnificent curvaceous ass. You could swear the slope of his ass could commit homicide, all the more reason to hate such a supposedly holy man.

 

All too soon, the bagel was devoured, your burning hatred pushed to the back of your mind because Spike-head had snorted orange juice and had to be lead to the emergency room, and you were making your way towards your first class. You walked through the hallways feeling entirely to conscious due to the fact that everyone was staring at you. You had a feeling they all hated you. You heard a chorus of ‘Hi Yuuri’ but you ignored it as the doom and gloom atmosphere of Spoons weighed heavily on you. You hated this God forsaken place, but it was where you had condemned yourself to spend the rest of this degree.

* * *

 

You entered your first class like you imagined Victor would enter your asshole - hypothetically because you hated him. God, you hated him so much - passionately and with fervor, just how you loved and praised the Lord. But (hypothetically!) he would enter roughly and with love, all at the same time. You opened the doors of the classroom wide like Victor would spread your legs, and then your asshole with his fingers, drenched in holy water. Your thoughts drifted to your initial interest, painting. Maybe they could mix holy water and paint and create an art that was admirable and never experienced before, but it would covered in layers and layers of not only paint but semen and hate. _Ugh,_ you thought, semen in art, it was like a freshman course all over again. Stupid Dicktor and his stupid dick, devolving your art process like this with his stupid perfect ass and stupid perfect face and stupid perfect everything - _who gave him the right?_

 

You forced yourself not to think about Victor spreading your legs in front of the Lord, oh the Lord. You could already feel your hate-erection standing to attention between your legs. You were so embarrassingly stiff. You cupped your hands in front of your crotch, perhaps the class would think you were shy, all the better. They couldn’t know how much you praised Vick--the Lord.

 

You sat down on your assigned seat, to the back and beside the window, because the animators would have a hard time drawing so many students as you gazed longingly out the window. So you gazed longingly out the window, watched as the rain fell in Spoons, because it always rained in Spoons. The town was a nightmare, and you reflected on your memories of warm and comforting Hasetsu, Spoons only had religion and nuns and a hot ass priest whom you despised for being so gorgeous that he had most definitely brought down the standard of the world. You admired the rain-glazed ground, and how it reflected the grey-ass sky. The grey ass-sky, heh. Maybe 50 shades of grey even, but nothing compared to the at least fifty shades of blue in Vicqbinktop’s eyes.

 

The class started, it was algebra, and the other students around you were starting to seem like they struggling with the lecture. You saw as much in the reflection of the window, as you were still looking through it. You, however, oh no, you were having no such trouble. Algebra was your easiest subject, just as everything else, because you were not like the other girls. Or the other boys. You were special- chosen by the Lord. If only Binktop would notice yo- No. No-no-no, you hated him. And his stupid beautiful eyes. And his face. And his ass. And his legs. And his Dicktor. And his skating. But most of all you hated how you didn’t hate him. Not even a little, not even at all.

Psyche. Fuck Viquetor. You hated his guts. How dare he make you love him so much, so fervently, that your desire could overrun your love for the Lord. More importantly, how dare he be so wrong in his bible lectures. How dare his mouth utter such deceiving words in such a beautiful way.

 

How did you know how Victor went about his sermons if you met him only this afternoon, you ask? Don’t. Just don’t ask. The only important detail about it was just how blue Viquetor’s eyes were. And the firmness of his ass, of course. Can’t forget about that.

 

The rule was “Yuuri Swan knows everything useful to the plot”, and you were going to follow it.

 

Somehow the professor didn’t care about you quite obviously zoning out and not paying attention to a single thing that was going on in class. It didn’t matter though, you had recognised very early on that as a main character there were certain things you could get away with in this plot line. The main one being your extreme Mary Sue abilities to ace every single subject in School or University, or Church- whatever the hell this was. You didn’t care as you watched everyone suffering with their answers, it was a matter of blinking and your notes were complete- from the corner of your eye you noticed Basic Friend number 3 trying to get your attention, and you debated ignoring him and returning to your reverie about Binktor and his probably alpha self. But then the Pewdiepie man waved more ferociously and you had no choice but to wave back. Pewdiepie straight up got out of his assigned seat to come and sit next to you, and in that moment you weren’t sure whether to feel horrified or amused. Absently you realised this was plot progress so you didn’t react much.

 

“I saw you checking out Viktop this morning,” he said grinning, his blue eyes dull in comparison to Vicquecktor’s staring at him knowingly. You wanted to seem impassive, not give away your innermost thoughts and desires, but you blushed, your face as red as a fire truck you had seen yesterday on the roads of the gloomy town of Spoons. As soon as Pewdiepie look alike had said that your mind was plagued with fantasies of Father Viktquetop, and it you could feel your breaths growing heavier. You struggled harder to keep your face neutral. You weren’t here to make friends or show weakness. You were only here to paint spoons. In Spoons. The town you had exiled yourself to, even though you hated the rain and the clouds and it was sapping away the golden from your beautiful smooth golden Japanese skin. Unbidden, you found yourself thinking of other ways a glow could be achieved - on the end of Dicktor’s dick. How _dare he?_ Could you even not mope about the harsh and unforgiving weather of Spoons in peace?

 

It didn’t take long after that for the bell to ring, signalling the end of the class. Of course the class already ended, narrative wise it wouldn’t be useful to talk about algebra surrounded by secondary characters. At best it could be some introspective monologue. Oh wait that’s what you spent your hour doing. It seemed the plot had moved enough for the Gods to be satisfied. You got up hurriedly, grabbing your complete and pristine, fully detailed algebra notes, and nodded to Pewdiepie in acknowledgement. “Yuuri, nice talking to you!” he said, smiling, his ugly blue eyes sparkling. You nodded again, “Likewise, Comrade.” You would have called him a “fellow associate”, but it was reserved for special people only. Like Vicktop. Except not like him at all because you hated him. So much. You grabbed your things, shoving them in your bag aside the bundle of bread sticks you had collected, and walked out of class not sparing anyone a second glance- your thoughts only clouded by the possibility of the **thicc knot™** and how much you hated Dicktop.

* * *

 

You got lost for twenty minutes before you were finally discovered by the janitor who walked you, holding your hand, to the next class. He introduced himself as Father Yakov, and vaguely you realised you recognised that name from somewhere. Your memory sucked. You were also incredibly clumsy which added to your personality. That’s fine though, having a couple of endearing flaws was part of being an interesting Mary Sue. Not to mention that you were not like all the other Mary Sues. You were the chosen one. THE Yuuri Swan. Also your shyness and social anxiety was endearing rather than being a problem in your daily life, actually you waited you next panic attack expectantly so a Love Interest **™** could kiss away your anxiety, Love Interest like Bink- no..you refused to think about him in this way. He was your Nemesis **™** .

You wiped your hands on your ripped jeans and your plaid red and black shirt, chasing any impure thought that you might have had because of Vicckqtaur and nervously you reached for the rosaries in your pocket. “Enter, my child,” the janitor said, his hand resting uncomfortably on your ass. You weren’t thinking about that though. His words were ringing in your head: _“Enter, my child.” “Enter, my child.” “Enter my child.”_ They were echoing in your head like a Godly echo, and it felt like salvation thinking about it. You opened the door to the classroom, the janitor sneaking in a final grope, his fingertips slipping into your ripped denim-covered asscrack,  your thoughts entirely consumed of Vinktop Cullen. _“Enter my child.”_ It echoed. You would want to enter his child, you realized suddenly because Father Yakov was Wicktor’s adoptive father, not a janitor after all. You just remembered this piece of pretty useful information. Your eyes fell on the man standing at the front of the class room and immediately he stopped teaching as his eyes landed on you.

 

Your breathing grew heavier as you both made eye contact once again. You could feel yourself flushing bright red like a ruby or a lobster, or a crab or something. This time your eyes went straight to his skin. His beautiful pale pearlescent skin, which you could only hoped matched the pearlescent sperm you had been dreaming about for the past few minutes since you’d seen him. The janito- Father Yakov’s words echoed in your mind again: “Enter my child.” He realised he wanted to take that piece of advice seriously while marvelling at the smoothness of his skin. It was as smooth as those rocks you would find at beaches and they were very smooth when you ran your fingers over them. His skin looked like a statues, Adonis, a God- absolutely perfect, and you got angry thinking about the fact that he probably didn’t even post his skin care routine on Youtube. Pushing the jealous thoughts aside, you focused on the real task at hand. Hate thirsting over his perfect skin. You had an urge to run your fingers over it, your lips because God he was as beautiful as an angel, his skin as smooth as laminated paper without bubbles, _and his pores_. Oh. His pores were non-existent. There was no dryness, no oil, no dead skin residue. You recalled the story of the man with the really smooth skin, an ancient story told in Hasetsu, and even though you’d blocked most of it out in the past because it hit a little too close to home with your perfect skin you were starting to realise maybe it wasn’t about you. Maybe it was about someone else. Someone not completely human. Someone who you wanted to smash. Someone whose smooth skin you’d like to feel under your hands as you rubbed his meat wand into submission as is spurted pearlescent sperm on your Golden Japanese Skin. You marveled at the deceiving beauty that was Binktoquetor Cullen and you felt that much more angry. The Lord should only bless his holiest men, but Vinktoppop was not a holy man, no holy man would have eyes that bright and skin that smooth. No Holy man would catch your eye in such a way that would make your thoughts jump straight to his thicc knot, and the soft skin of his thighs and ass, and his smooth cheeks. No Holy man would look like he was painted by Van Eyck, like he was Putin. His skin as white as bird shit, just like you had seen so many times before as you got off to Van Eyck’s best works. Now he was here in flesh. Viktoquetor wasn’t a holy man, Viktor was Satan, with skin like a very smooth marble lollipop.

 

After your inner rant about his perfect skin your eyes travelled over his face again and lingered on his nose. Just like his marvellous butt his nose reminded you of the the magnificent works of the old renaissance artists like Michelangelo or Leonardo Da Vinci. You weren’t even sure at this point if they painted pretty noses, but it just felt right to compare his olfactory organ to such great names. You watched Bigtop as he breathed through his nose, his nasal wings trembling as he did so. You felt a hot pang of desire rise in your stomach - you wanted to lick that nose, suck on it, stick your tongue in it. But you knew that not everyone was into that particular kink of yours so you tore your eyes away from  his perfect snoot and let them travel down to the next part of the masterpiece assembly that was his face. His lips were lush and glistened with a faint trail of saliva - he must have licked them just a moment before. Again the desire to lick this man rose inside of you but at least this was safe territory since basically everyone likes to get licked in the mouth area. You were pretty sure Bunktop said something because his luscious lips moved. You could not hear what he said though because you inner rambling on his extraordinary beauty was way too loud. Also you were convinced that your ability to hear vanished once you had a boner. You wanted to look at those coated lips more but you knew you shouldn’t. Every second you kept looking your desire rose. You wanted to claim those lips. Kiss them, suck them, _bite_ them. Bite them until you drew blood and they turned into a nice shade of red. You wanted to stick your hot tongue into his mouth and stroke his slick muscle with your own. You wanted to taste him and you wanted him to taste _you_. Somehow you forgot to hate Whiptor in this paragraph but you still hated him anyways even if he had the most perfect snuffer and piehole.

 

Reluctantly you looked into his eyes, and you were reminded of all the stories you read in your childhood about cow-eyed Hera and her immortal beauty. His eyelashes were long - too long for a human, was he a mythical being, you wondered? But his eyelashes… They made him look almost fragile, the stupid color of his 50 shades of platinum hair. Long and Thick (like his Dicktor), they trembled faintly when he blinked. Oh, how he blinked. He looked like a siren, who lived only to sing a sweet song of destruction for your poor di- sanity, to lead you to your sure doom, to make you abandon the good, pure word of the Lord. The things you would do to his eyelashes… How good they would look under a heavy coat of your- Praise the Lord, God bless, Amen.

  
Remembering God, you were reminded of Viquetor’s job as a priest. He possibly had to recite verses, to sing. Knowing Bigtop, even his voice was probably outrageously beautiful. Deep, pleasant baritone. Would he sing for you? Would he bless you with his presence from now on and for all eternity? No. No, you couldn’t think that. You hated him, right? No matter how beautiful he was. No matter how divine he seemed. And he was wedded to the great Lord above, wasn’t he? You hastily looked down and broke eye contact. But you weren’t Yuuri Swan for nothing: if eyes are out of limits, body’s fair game, right?

 

As your eyes roamed the body of the beautiful, majestic being Viquetor was, they stopped their trajectory at his crotch, a beautiful treasure. You could see how the cloth of his pants hugged oh so perfectly the beautiful mound of his penis. Usually you wouldn’t be able to see so clearly the shape of someone’s cock below their pants, but Vicquetor had the most delicious, big, thick cock. It was like Victor’s cock was sculpted by Michelangelo, if Michelangelo had been into the habit of sculpting big dicks the size of a metaphorical log instead of the tiny penises hanging between the legs of his subjects. The curves of his dick were so perfect, like they were mathematically calculated with the divine proportion. And you could see the mesmerizing shape of that precious cock from behind a layer of cloth! You could only imagine how his naked prick would look on your hands, precious and beloved, nestled under your nose in preparation of you swallowing him. His beautiful veins bulging and crisscrossing his dick, giving it a pleasurable texture in your hands, the pressure of his cock head as it struggled to enter your pink, wet pucker. And you could tell that Victor was definitely not wearing underpants, there was no viable way he would be doing so and have his thick meat wand be marked so beautifully under his pants. Your mouth was salivating at the thought of  that wondrous iron rod on your hands, your tongue. Between your legs, as you professed your never-ending hate for him.

 

You tried to tear your eyes away from his crotch, and you finally did, instead landing on the span of his shoulders, the way the thin fabric of his dress shirt was stretched across his chest. Looking closely you noticed that you could see the perfect peak of his nip nops underneath. You could almost picture them, the pink little buds of his nipples like your budding and blooming desire - no _wait no, it wasn’t working._ Why does he even have nipples anyway? Don’t animators usually leave them out? You hated this, you hated him, from the fabric of his shirt, all the way to the conveniently cool temperature of the room, it was like all these events were conspiring against you to railroad you down a path crafted by a control freak DM, your free will stripped by the machinations of cold and distant author(s) God. _Just don’t look at his nip nops_ , you whispered fiercely to yourself, focus on the other stuff, like how his chest is the perfect width for cuddling - _angry_ cuddling that is, like when you mush your pillow a few times before going to bed, yeah, _take that_ Bigtoporu. Man, you hated him, and his stupid shirt definitely. That shirt was the worst, and he was the worst for wearing it, especially with how lovingly it outlined the perfect curve his pecs. The absolute worst shirt. _I can take it off for you_ , you heard again that voice and wrote it off, it made no sense - take off what? The only thing taking off today was your sanity all thanks to stupid Vikqtour and his stupid perfect everything. God, wasn’t it just hateful?

 

His shirt made you so angry you started watching his head again and more specifically his ears, those were as perfectly and stupidly pretty as the rest of his magnificent body, “What character design artist could achieve such a work?” you wondered. Well the Lord, obviously, or maybe Michelangelo because apparently it is the only Renaissance artist the authors you can think of. To counter the sudden lack of italian references you try to recite in your head the name of all the ninja turtles, as this is the basis of your knowledge of italian painters and you were glad you still remembered well all the famous italian artists everyone knows about: Donatagliatelo, Raphiki, Leo the lion, Michael Jacksino and Splinter. But back to character design: you were also pretty sure someone in the MAPPA studios of your very own country could pull of this kind of perfection in the delicate shape of Vicutoru’s earlobes. The tips of his divine ears were slightly pink due to the coldness of this doomed city but you were sure they could turn even redder if Blinktoru Q-len allowed you to bite sexually, wait no, _angrily_ at the soft flesh covering his fragile cartilage. You would gladly nibble these ears all night long if you could, to affirm your dominant status as a male omega but a special omega more alpha than alphas. A kind of super omega glorious and full of power.

 

Dicktator cleared his throat, snapping you out of his mental hate worship. You wanted to glare more at him, take in his beauty and booty so you could build up your rage like the burning fires of hell that you wanted to throw the Unholy man in a holy man’s guise into. His disguise clearly referred to his anti-christ status, he was a False Messiah, taking the appearance of the purest and fairest angel you could imagine just to bring chaos and filthy desire on the earth and in your pants. But Antichrist **™** interrupted your internal monologue AGAIN. Will he stop doing that at some point?

 

“It’s nice of you to join us. Welcome to our university”, said Ice Daddy69. Did his skin sparkle under sunlight from the window or was it your imagination? Oh, wait. It’s Spoons, there is no sun. Just your imagination then. Curse Dicktorop and his stupid bishounen sparkles.

 

  
Finally you realized that you should probably answer. “T-thank you”, you said and hastily retreated to your seat. As you went, you felt eyes on your back, and could only hope it was Vicktop... All the attention was pretty infuriating, as you were the Yuuri Swan, you weren’t like other girls or boys or others. It made you feel judged and you weren’t here to be judged. You’d given up everything to be the most beautiful spoon painter the world had ever seen, but instead you were faced with Vikintopbigpop.

 

You sat down, taking out your painting supplies, and dropping  half of them on the ground because you were clumsy™, you always remember that being clumsy is your main character trait and you should be clumsy in all circumstances except when it’s important for the plot or your Mary Sue status. Although being clumsy can put you in danger but only if a guy seeming not much older than you are is here to save you. You have a personality. It just fell along the ground with your clumsy ass twenty four years ago and you lost it, but it’s definitely out there.

 

You looked up as a pale hand shot down beside yours to grab the spilled paint. It was spike-head back from the ER room and probably trying to curry your favour by helping you out, as your potential love interests rival. You smile, but it’s actually an expression that resembles a dead fish. It is okay, because spike-head finds it hot. You blushu blushu because being cutely shy is also part of your personality.

 

“I know that the church ball, mass thing isn’t till Sunday, but would you like to go with me?” Spike face looked up at you earnestly, his mcr styled makeup still dripping down his cheeks, and for a second you admired his faded and dull blue eyes, like the colour that’s advertised for babies nappies.

“Uh..” You tried to sound intelligent but Spike-heads blandness made it really hard for you to concentrate. “I don’t really think that kind of stuff is my thing. I’d rather stay at home.”

“But Yuuri, that must really get boring wouldn’t you say? Mass is so much more exciting- it could even wake you up inside.” he drones, and it's almost like he’s trying to mimic the song for you, but no one can properly capture the true essence of Amy Lee and her soul shattering voice.

“You would have to call my name and save me from the dark,” you mumbled knowingly. But Spike-head wouldn’t be able to achieve that. Only Vinktopopbink would be able to come close to that, with that solar panel that was his forehead reflecting light in every corner of the room.

You allowed yourself once more to look at the man named Bricktor and you wanted to never look away again. His lips were red like the bricks on the inside of your apartment, you also blushed as red as the bricks inside your run down apartment. It was a vicious cycle, you couldn’t escape the bricks if you tried. But maybe Viktinmlop was more than the red bricks, he was a red house, he was the red square- it fit because he’s Russian haha. Can you, reader, believe that Vinkioptioosnp invented the red square. But he was so much more than red. He was blue and black and yellow. He was made of nebulas and novas and night sky. But then you realised space made you puke and so did Binktopchihokopop.

 

“I’ll call your name from the heavens,” Georgi replied, and oh, he was still talking to you. You had zoned out looking into his nappy blue eyes.

 

“That won’t be necessary Comrade.”

 

Right at that moment the bell rang because once again it wasn’t furthering the plot to stay in this classroom. You collected your belongings and stuffed them into your bag. When you were about to leave the room you looked once again to Vktr and nearly ran into a wall while doing it because you were still clumsy™. He was looking at you, and the fact that you had his undivided attention even for a second made you feel things you didn’t think a good Catholic grill like you would ever feel. You were so embarrassed by that that you hurried out of the classroom into the school’s corridor.

The rest of the school day way a blur of people talking to you and you being utterly bored by them. You were pretty sure that you fell asleep a few times. But honestly it didn’t even matter to you because the only thing that mattered now was Binkterod and your undying hate for him.

Mileas approached you hesitantly at the end of the day, and before she could say anything you decided that it was time to take action so you could leave to your rosary and cross haven aka your red brick apartment in peace. You didn’t want to communicate, you didn’t want to do this anymore- the whole day had taken too much out of you already.

 

You turned to her with a smile, her hair red like an american fire hydrant swaying in the wind.

 

“Did you know cannibalism is still technically legal in most parts of the world. The only facet of cannibalism that makes it illegal is the consent and murder aspects. Considering that, if there were two consenting adults who wanted to eat chunks of each other's flesh it would be perfectly legal to do that as long as neither of them died as a result. Isn’t that fascinating?” You somehow managed to say it all in one breath, and with overwhelming pleasure you watched the redette turn away and leave after a look of badly disguised fear crossed her face.

 

Smiling smugly to yourself you started to make your way home.

 

* * *

 

When you arrived home you couldn’t control your thirst anymore. You needed to know more. You wanted to uncover every mystery concerning the man you started hating so passionately earlier that day

 

That fascination led to you googling him, because that’s not creepy at all. Apparently Ficktor Cullen was a popular Father, since his sermons were on Youtube.

 

Indeed, you had taken such a vested interest in Victor’s sermons because his beautiful bubble butt fascinated you. you could see his beautiful curves under his cassock, nevermind that you had never seen Viquetor in a cassock - at least not in real life. You were currently watching him on YouTube after all. But the angle was just wrong and you really couldn’t check him out as much as you would have liked to. But your imagination served you just right, as per usual. Oh how you wanted to feel the holy cloth, draped over your waist as Vicktor bent you over. You didn’t sleep, as you were listening to Victor speak his filthy interpretation of the bible. You had spent all night restless in rage and arousal. You hated Father Cullen for it.

 

The next day you woke up and just lay in bed trying to put your thoughts in order. You felt as if you hadn’t slept at all and you gingerly touched your face spheres orbs, worried that you might now have dark circles. Your golden japanese skin was already losing its gold in the cold dull, dreary atmosphere of Spoons. The rain pattered against your window, and you tiredly listened, imaging this was an Adele song and you’d just lost the love of your life.

 

Reluctantly you got out of bed to get ready for school. While getting ready you chose to listen to some sad and melancholy songs to emphasize your overall really shitty mood. Damien Rice does a pretty good job there.

 

Half an hour later you were finally on your way to school. It was when you were walking across the parking area when suddenly everything seemed to happen at once. The first thing you registered was Jizztor who stood a few cars away, talking to his brother, Vinkinboinktinopink. His hair was pulled up into a high ponytail and he was wearing a trench coat that covered a black turtleneck which hugged his twelve abs body perfectly. If you started on how amazing he looked in those pants you’d be there all day until a car ran over you (haha foreshadowing).

 

The second thing you noticed was George who sat behind the steering wheel of a purple coloured car. You dubbed it the emo mobile, even Gerard Way wouldn’t have anything this emo- it had cobwebs on the side mirrors and band stickers in the windows. Spikella was wearing a leather choker and even from the long distance you could see the glint of the glittering spikes around his neck. He was emo extraordinaire and you quickly looked away not wanting to make eye contact after the embarrassment that was yesterday when he had invited you to mass.  
Then you heard it, loud and clear, like Bviktornioptop’s voice during those youtube sermons- His engine roared to life when he stepped on the gas and it was as if his car was racing directly towards you. But it couldn’t be. It was coming closer and closer and you were debating whether this was it. Why would Giorugi do such a thing?

 

He was the one who had messed up the Evanescence lyrics and even after that, you were nothing but polite towards him. What an asshead! You actually had the time to get out of the way while he painstakingly pulled out of his parking space but you were busy cursing him in your head.

 

You whipped around, your eyes glued to the speeding(slowly reversing and straightening) vehicle in front of you. You held your breath. Georigiporgi’s evil, crazy eyed face drawing closer and closer behind the wheel of his shitty car, and faintly you heard hatefuck playing from his car radio. It was like poetry in motion you think faintly; you’d just moved to the town of Spoons, to get a spoon painting skill, but now the man who’d offered to take you to mass was driving towards you, sonic the hedgehog speed ready to kill you. If only you had a beautiful platinum haired vampire priest with eyes like limpid tears ready to save you. You think this as your eyes flutter shut. You were ready for the sweet, satisfying embrace of death.

 

Nothing happened. You squirmed uneasily. _Anytime now God. Please kill me._ Still nothing happened.

 

You hesitantly opened your eyes. Expecting to be in heaven or something but-

 

You saw _him_.

 

Your heart skipped a beat and you wondered if it was a disease. Save me from the nothing I’ve become, you thought. Then your eyes moved and you saw it. Two long, white hands shooting out protectively in front of you, and the emo mobile shuddered to a stop a foot from your beautiful unmarked golden Japanese face, the large hands fitting providentially into a deep dent in the side of the emo mobile’s body, in a way you wished they were fitting into your body. Inside. Probably doing the most amazing things with those fingers that traced the pages of the bible since they were entirely sinless and pure.

You started to clench your butt subconsciously in anticipation. Those fingers. You wanted to feel them. They were slender, pale and perfect, like Vinktink himself, and neatly manicured. You hated Kinktop even more for that.

 

You physically smacked yourself for writing sonnets about Viknip’s beauty in your head, and V physically flinched. You hated him, nothing had changed, this situation could do nothing to change your mind about it. Sure, he’d literally saved your life by stopping evil Georgi’s bullet-proof MCR themed emo mobile from smashing into you and turning you into bad Yuuri sushi (you were Japanese, and sushi is from Japan so it all makes sense- don’t be racist) but so what?

 

All of a sudden you paused, your golden, amber, brown eyes like melting honey, and gold travelling from the dent in the ugly car to Vickqueitorisak’s manicured hands, and then up to his face. Did Mr-I-have-a-perfect-ass-perfect-voice-perfect-hair-perfect-nose-perfect-lips-perfect-thighs-perfect-knees-perfect-elbows-subpar-eyebrows-perfect-eyes-perfect-lips-perfect-glabella-perfect-teeth-perfect-eyelashes-perfect-voice-perfect-smile just stop a speeding car with his strength alone? You were shook.

 

You were sure you weren’t the best judge on humans in any case but it seemed pretty standard that most human beans did not have supernatural strength. It was all adding up now, you thought, your eyes trailing down to Viktor’s general dick and ass area. No one could have such a perfect ass and still be human.With these annoyed thoughts in mind your anger started to grow. As if to mirror your displeasure it started to rain. God damnit Spoons. The weather, the hell you had exiled yourself to, yada yada.

 

You opened your mouth to speak, to ask vinktinkisascaly about what he was or something cliche along those lines, but he bet you to it.

 

 _“_ _The important thing is not to stop questioning. Curiosity has its own reason for existence. One cannot help but be in awe when he contemplates the mysteries of eternity, of life, of the marvelous structure of reality. It is enough if one tries merely to comprehend a little of this mystery each day.”_ He said sagely, nodding his head wisely as he stood up as gracefully as a swan or those people that can stand on their tiptoes and still look graceful. Then he walked away, as if you weren’t sitting there in complete and utter shock.

 

Hate to watch you leave (and your general existence) but love to watch you go- you thought. Bikinitop’s wisdom seemed to have rubbed off on you, or maybe that was the concussion you had somehow gotten from merely being pushed out of the cars way. And you sat, in the rain, shellshocked from Viktor’s words, and his gentle voice and somehow you couldn’t help but feel oddly touched by them.

 

In the light drizzle, you felt something bloom within you.


	2. Open Bible and Open Ass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Mysterious thing, an unstable plot. Powerful, and when meddled with, dangerous._

                                                                

 

You still sat on the ground, rain dramatically pouring over you like those music videos where something terrible has happened. Or The Notebook. Too bad there was no Ri-Han Goose-Ling, the famous chinese actor,  here to lift you of your shocked stupor. Or even literally lift you, you weren’t very picky. You looked up at the ugly emo mobile that had belonged to that man that looked like a dramatic piece of okra with too much mayo on it and wondered whether he was dead. Hatefuck, an iconic song was still blasting from the car, and maybe you would have been okay dying with that kind of soundtrack to back you up.

 

“Yuuri!” Someone shouted, snapping you out of your daze, and you looked up, a rain drop trailing down your golden Japanese skin, down your cheek, down your neck and disappearing into your shirt. Your thicc eyelashes had rain water clinging to them, and as you turned to see the fire-truck haired girl: Milan, you knew she was hit by your devastating beauty. Your lips were rosy red, and your clothes were a plaid shirt and ripped jeans with a rosary in the pocket, to show your slight lesbian sensibilities, but you knew you pulled them off better than any runway model out there because you were Yuuri Toshiya Isabella Mari Swan and you had raven black hair, which shone in the sunlight, not that Spoons had any sunlight, and amber eyes like burning gold.

 

Everyone thought you look like famous figure skater Yuzuru Hanyu. You tell them you’re not related to him but you wish you were cause he’s absolutely gorgeous. A lot of people say he’s a vampire but you scoff at that because vampires don’t exist—but then you think of Vinkling and your heart skips a beat as you realise that holy shit maybe that’s what he was. But then you scoff at the idea, because if they did exist then Yuzuru would definitely be one—he’s a God. Your teeth were straight (the only straight thing in you to be honest) and white and you had golden Japanese skin, but you were scared it was vaning in the shitty town of Spoons.

 

“Huh?” you said, realising you probably should have replied eventually. Milil shrugged, moving closer to you, holding an umbrella over your artfully drenched self. You were quite randomly reminded of the song by the famous Japanese Singer Ri-Ha Na whose forehead could only rival Vinktiosngskdpot’s and you hated yourself for being reminded of him due to a stupid umbrella song. Under our umbrella and work-bitch were your favourites by Ri-Ha Na. Thinking about Ri-Ha Na you couldn’t help but return to think about their big, shiny foreheads.

 

They both had the most gorgeous foreheads that could rival the brightest solar panels and probably create enough electricity or energy or whatever solar panels did (you weren’t a scien-toast, you didn’t know _everything_ ) and solve the major world crises. You theorized that maybe their foreheads were so big because they were solar panels of sexy. They absorbed so much solar energy they started shining like the sun. Metaphorically or course. There was no way humans would be able to shine like the sun. _With_ the sun.

 

“Are you okay, Yuuri?”, she asked sounding concerned. You snapped out of your reverie about thicc foreheads.

 

“How did you even survive that? And was that Father Cullen with you just now? Damn it, Yuuri, we gotta get you to the infirmary.”

 

Milli Vanilli asked too many questions to answer for your taste so you just shrugged and got up. “I don’t know where the infirmary is.” Of course you didn’t know because you obviously had the same sense of direction as a slice of bread, just as every other protagonist in a romance novel for teenagers. Except this wasn’t a romance novel because there was of course no one you would consider a Love Interest™. Maybe a Fuck Interest™ but only a Hate Fuck Interest™ , because even after he saved your life you still hated Fucktop with all your heart and all your ass. (Your hungry, _hungry_ ass).

 

Apparently Mitra had guided you to the right place while you were busy with your inner monologue because you suddenly stood in front of a white door with black letters spelling ‘Infirmary’ on it.

 

“Go get inside,” she told you, “I gotta head to class and tell the professor where you are. That way you won’t get in trouble for missing the class.”

 

You wanted to answer something... but then again not really because talking to people was always very tiring for you so you rather just didn’t at all. Anyways you couldn’t answer something even if you wanted to because she left before you had the chance to say something. Stupid Milinty, she didn’t realise that you wouldn’t get into trouble no matter what. How could she even have turned away from you. Had she not seen your ImDb page? You pulled out your phone, pulling up your incredibly well done profile.

 

* * *

 

**Yuuri Toshiya Isabella Mari Swan**

Main Character in Novel ⎜Professional Mary Sue ⎜Still hotter than you

 

Yuuri Katsuki has an ongoing story-line in the Twilight/Clergy fanfiction of the famous series Yuri!!! On Ice. He is portrayed in place of the infamous Bella Swan but more original. Throughout the storyline we can see Yuuri’s thirst progression which will eventually-hopefully, most probably lead to some sort of climax ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°), right now this profile in itself can be considered as a sort of plot progression. He is known to… See full bio >>>

 

 **Born:** Nov 29, in Hasetsu, Saga Prefecture, Kyushu, Japan

 

You sighed when you noticed there was a single comment on your profile. You didn’t even know you could comment on these profiles. Your world was completely changed as you scrolled down to read it.

 

 ** _PIPIMEMS:_** _Are you actually kidding me? How does he get an IMDb page??? The moment I saw those paint splatters in the opening I was reminded strongly of Mulan. Also a horrendous movie with a idolized guy lusting after a weak individual. So boring. Twilight is much better, the grill made sense, Edward had a better forehead to-_  

* * *

 

 

You hurriedly exited out of the tab before you could read more of the vile and absolutely and entirely untrue comment. You were seething with hidden Japanese rage as you stared at the door of the infirmary. How dare that person compare that pasty white mayo squidge to the glorious existence of Voretop.

 

Now you stood there all alone in front of this huge door and you could have sworn it got bigger while you were looking at it. Suddenly it flung open and you were greeted by the most cow-like, thick, and well moisturised and curled eyelashes you had every seen in your entire human life (human because you were slowly starting to realise that maybe there were more than man and women!-kind in this world, and this wasn’t just referring to your extreme obsession with fallen angels and those other kind of popular teenage novel monsters, this was referring to the real deal).

 

But there was more to this person in front of you even though the eyelashes did dominate his whole appearance. He was huge—even taller than Viktorgradivich and nearly as beautiful. You had seen this man before, and you were pretty sure Mlia said his name was Jizztophe or something.

 

Jizztophe with soft green eyes and a cute stubble on his face. Blond curls framing his face and he could easily pass as an angel if he hadn’t got such a sultry look on his face. He practically smelled like sin, and the best kind of sin you’d say. Or maybe it was milk, like the milk from the cows he resembled. You were once again hit by a sudden pang of lust because you were still a teenager at heart after all and this nurse was just hot as fuck. Fuck indeed. You wanted to fuck him and you were actually able to think those thoughts without feeling guilty because Jizztophe wasn’t Viklsfntop. But maybe you were only thinking those thoughts about Jizztophe being that hot because the one who was currently writing had a Jizztophe kink and was projecting into you.

 

You definitely thought Giacumetti—that was Jizztophes middle name— is a kink.

Jizztophe was wearing a short pink nurse uniform with crucifix pattern (it _was_ a religious college). Looking at dem legs, you realized that you would totally hit that if only you weren’t in Kismessitude with Bigtop Vladimirovich. Still, you could dream.

  
Dem legs were clad in see-through white thigh highs. Damn girl, work it. The famous Japanese singer Kat-i Per-Ri’s song about nice legs, daisy dukes ran through your head, as your eyes travelled down those thicc sexy cow thighs.

 

“How can I help you,” he asked with a voice as smooth as goat cheese. If binktinkiknkitop wasn’t the assigned love interest you’d be totally _in_ there, ravishing those glistening red lips, and probably something else that would probably be glistening soon enough, kind of like a glazed donut.

 

“Uh... I hit my head,” you answered awkwardly because the thing that defined you the most was always your awkwardness, you were, after all—a certified mary sue.

 

Sister Chris then proceeded to do _everything_ to you.

 

 _Everything_ included smothering you in his buttermilk bosom, kissing your boo-boo, and offering you a cigarette. This man was truly perfection. You would elope with him to sunny valleys of Switzerland if only you weren’t in love with spoon-painting and in hate with a certain Holy Father.

 

If only you could post emoticons to convey your emotions, this entire paragraph could have been summed up by the sweat drops and eyes emoji. And by eye emoji not the terrifying single eye that a certain amount of people like to use as a torture method—oh no! You would never be so cruel as to use that. The nice eye emojis, which are entirely suggestive, looking sideways and conveying so much emotion that mere words couldn’t convey. Not the monstrosity that are used to torture a certain someone’s mothers. No!

 

Pray emoji would be a high contender as well, along with the prayer beads emoji, you were a man of God and Spoon, after all.

 

When you both lit your cigarettes it felt like you were high from post-coital bliss, even though you were pretty sure you didn’t let him put his dick in you. It didn’t matter though, those long eyelashes, more numerous than the sands in the sahara desert fluttering at you had the same effect as taking a huge blue dildo in your supermassive black hole (haha a twilight ref) ass.

 

“So Yuuri, how do you like Spoons so far? Already seen someone you’d like to sink your teeth into?” he asked while winking at you, dazzling you with his thicc lashes, and grassy green eyes. You couldn’t help but dimly note that they still weren’t as shiny and magnificent as Voregeoisiestinktop’s eyes—another pang of hate travelled through you, like an electric shock, or a sting from a portuguese box jellyfish.

 

Since Sister Chris hasn’t actually offered you anything to ease the pain of what could very likely be a concussion, you could only awkwardly smile and blush.

  
“I-I don’t know what you mean,” you replied, dazzling him with your eyelashes back (thats all you responded with, but inside you werent even sure who you’d want to sink your teeth into… Father Yakov… or boivbdrfhwer. No wait you hated him)—after all you had the advantage of your intense Japanese genes (not jeans, but you were wearing very fashionable ripped black jeans with a plaid shirt and rosary in your pocket). Two could play this game, cowman.

  
You could feel his gaze upon your gorgeous golden Japanese skin. It screamed ‘christuuri’ to you, but, alas, this fic didn’t have ‘Christophe Giacometti/Katsuki Yuuri’ in the tags, so you both had to keep your desires to yourselves. You let your mind wander back to Viquuetortop. His alabaster skin, sharp cheekbones that could cut a bitch, his 100000/10 ass, his magnificent Adidas cock… He was a beautiful male Galatea and you wanted to make him a real Man. Even his rumoured love for mayo couldn’t turn you off. You would swim in mayo every day if Dicktor so desired.

 

“Пельмени едят только с майонезом, Юра! Я приучу тебя его любить,” you suddenly thought in Russian. Since you weren’t cruel enough to let people use google translate for this masterpiece of a line, you decided to translate it: “Pelmeni must be eaten with mayo and mayo only, Yura. I will teach you to love it.”

 

“You’re bland enough to be considered a good self-insert main character Yuuri! Which also means your concussion is gone and just in time for you to make it to your spoon painting class!”

 

You sighed in a mixture of relief and anger. Mostly anger. But you needed to see Binktinkitnksiasofdpopposupercalifragilisticexpialidoshisicantspelltop, and you needed to see him soon.

* * *

 

You felt shaky as you walked to your class—thankfully it was spoon painting 101 with Vinktingkspsdop. Instantly you felt relieved. However when you entered the class that was gorgeous, you hadn’t noticed before because you were too overwhelmed (by hate) of Voretikor.

 

The walls were lined with all kinds of painted spoons, spoons of all shapes and sizes. It was the heaven you had imagined you’d go to when you were finally hit by that emo mobile by spike head—alas it didn’t happen. However, back to the spoons, there were so many colours. _So. Many. Colours. So. Many. Spoons._ There were patterns of all kinds, all sorts of designs, and even with the endless colours you could already tell that none compared to Vinktink’s eyes.

 

The amount of painting utensils visible made you hard, and you casually and discreetly tucked aside your erection, eyeing the sweet ass-paint brushes. The palette knives, the spoon-shaping things that totally were real surely, and weren’t made up solely for the purpose of this fic, the overuse of em dashes—all these things had your hands itching in his pockets, where they rested beside the rosary beads, ready for some spoon painting.

 

You looked at the latest design by Binkore. It was a beautiful, sleek spoon. It was painted in a purple and pink gradient with soulful golden marks, and the handle was twisted in a way that conveyed the spoons longing and loneliness. It was as if the spoon was crying out for help, begging to be used. A sign of loneliness and muted tragedy.

 

You sighed, you couldn’t feel pity for him. Not because of a spoon. You tore your gaze away—it was the right thing to do.

 

The next thing you noticed was that the Professor in front of the class was not Vikitelknmop like you expected but Father Yakov. Disappointment rushed through your body when you hurried to your seat. You wanted to see Flicktor, wanted to ask him so many things, wanted to punch him in his beautiful face. Punch him with your cock. Wanted to figure out whether your understanding was true, was Binky a supernatural being? Were all of Vinky’s family supernatural beings too?

 

Father Yakov said some things about Vinktiopoinop not feeling well today cause he vored too much mayo pirozki and that he was going to take over his classes for the day. When you heard Father Yakov talk you suddenly remembered the last time you met him. The memory rushed back to you. You still remembered it as if it was yesterday, which it probably was.

 

You still remembered his soft touch on your butt. His finger probing you denim covered asscrack. Assvore tease. You wanted more of that and once again you were aroused during class, but this time you weren’t ashamed of it. You didn’t hate Father Yakov like you hated Viktorte. You actually liked this old, grumpy man. His sex appeal was unusual but it filled the whole room and you were confused because it seemed as if you were the only one affected by it.

 

You couldn’t believe that none of your classmates wanted a piece of that wrinkled ass, wrinklier than that dry satsuma you had once tried to eat for breakfast. The rough texture still lingered on your tongue and you wondered if that’s how Father Yakov’s skin would feel. But then you remembered his ostrich shaped bald head, and you imagined how it must have been sandpapered into smoothness and how you could run your tongue over it and it would feel like a smooth lollipop. The sexy mullet really was doing it for you too. You really wanted a taste of that russian pelmeni. Slather him in сметана. Shove him up your ass.

 

Thinking about Father Yakov like that got you very hot and not only in the sexual way but in the literal way. It was either Father Yakov or an after effect of Sister Chris’ treatment. You weren’t feeling very well and the class was quite boring without Voktupork. You had research to do and no time to lust after Father Yakov. It seemed he was only a side character after all—even vivid descriptions about his sexy leathery skin weren’t enough to arouse you at this point.

 

You raised your hand and waited till the Father noticed you (which, let's be real, wasn’t hard) and called your name.

 

“I’m not feeling very well,” you said and tried to sound a bit cutely whiny trusting that it would help you to get out of the class as soon as possible, “I had a serious accident this morning—I think I should rest.”

 

Yakov huffed, gruffly, his manliness put you a little on edge—even the Daddy vibes he was giving off were making your skin crawl. You felt as if there was something intrinsically _wrong_ about the fact that this old pruned up raisin-kin was trying to stand where the graceful sleek and silver haired _God_ (that you hated) had stood.

 

You didn’t say anything, however, even as his lustful gaze devoured your plaid clad smoking bod.

 

“You can go, Swan-kun.” You had forgotten your second name wasn’t Katsuki for a second—remembering, you jolted out of your seat, grabbing your backpack and nodding at some of the secondary characters that were your friends on the way out.

 

You needed to know more about Binktore, if it was the last thing you did.

 

* * *

 

You were sitting on your laptop from 1956, it was barely a laptop. Just two pieces of cardboard stuck together, with a tablet stuck to the piece of cardboard. It still worked like a charm. And by charm you meant the charm that could be compared to the charm of Spoons, which was no charm at all because Spoons was a rainy hell where there was no sun at all.

 

Is this one of the author's personal frustrations being translated onto paper—no of course not—no bias here, anyone would miss the sun. You are a relatable character. The rain was a ceaseless downpour, dampening his mood as it dampened the pavement, the grass, the trees, every fucking thing was grossly damp okay.

 

The sky was overcast and gloomy, the sky seemed to rain like God was pissing down on Spoons because of whatever incestual kinky shit the Cullens got up to. Everything was fuck, and it could be blamed on the rain. The sun never shone, but plants still flourished, because the blessings and holiness of the town were still present. By holiness it was probably the nuns because let's be real and true to ourselves, the Cullens couldn’t be as pure as they made themselves out to be.

 

A few hours later (you were actually able to cook, eat and do the dishes) your laptop finally loaded the search engine which wasn’t g**gle because you probably didn’t have the rights to share that company’s name. Your laptop had a strange symbol on it and you understood that it represented a brand of sorts but writing this fic the author’s didn’t want to get into legal trouble so we can assume it was some sort of popular and easy to access in Europe fruit.

 

It was black like your dark dying soul, the opposite of what your golden Japanese skin was, but as someone who prided themselves in fashion you recognised the importance of contrast. You started to type in Buktiototipops name ‘Binktop Cullen’ and pressed enter but nothing showed up. Well not nothing. There were a few fanfic links with a rare pair called Binktop/Cullen which apparently included Binktop Nikiforov—a very gay ice skater who was also a Soviet era war hero.

You were instantly impressed but the name was too close to Vinktinkink so you ignored it, and Edward Cullen—a creepy vampire stalker. You weren’t even sure if it was RPF or if those were fictional characters but you were damn sure that they shouldn’t be shipped. That vampire dude creeped you out. Vampires creeped you out. There was no possible way that the hateful creature that had saved your life could be one.

 

You shrugged, moving on from the numerous, well researched articles about vampires to more obscure (this means ‘not so well known,’ to everyone in Mexico studying in CONALEP) and less impressive articles.

 

You decided to check first if Biketeifoerp could be a Dahu, because, come on, mystical creatures might exist and if he _were_ one it would definitely be a dahu cause his right limbs are like 2 millimeters shorter that the left ones. Or whatever that makes in inches cause you are in America™  lol metric system is the shit lmao (It’s not, why would you choose Fahrenenrntteit rather than Celsius. Ye Fahrenent 451 is a cool name for a book but it’s not a thing of science. Come on America. **Be great again (haha, not like America though because we all know that went in the shitter), use the metric system.** And stop putting the month before days, you uncooked piece of popcorn

 

I’ve been informed that uncooked popcorn is called Maïs- with a capital letter because an author is german and a stupid - EXCUSE ME??? - You both please. It’s okay. Life is daijoubu…

 

I’m calling the diaeresis stupid not your capitalist tendencies, as i was saying a stupid diaeresis cause one is french.

 

**Life is daijoubu.**

 

 **( Are we keeping that in the final chapter. - Yes - .Nice.** ) ( and i couldn’t care less) Like it has been said before there is no agenda in this or personal bias—this has been a disclaimer. (Can we stop adding things in parenthesis we’re ruining the flow kids) (Okay.)

 

So, _anyway,_ Spoons. Right. You continued searching through the numerous articles on obscure mythical beings because after that car incident you were entirely sure that there was no way Vinkto could be a human bean. He was too fast, too cool, too handsome, his hair was illegally long and looked like moonshine cascading around lean body built like an athlete, and his eyes sparkled like they’d seen everything and taken the world's natural beauty and somehow vored it into his very being.

 

You googled vore to understand him better, maybe it would lead you to better results. Rest assured that it did not lead you to better results. You came to the conclusion Viky wasn’t into vore. You hoped. But you also hoped not because who doesn't love a good assvore sometimes. Wait, no. You hate him. Right. Got it. I keep forgetting.

 

He wasn’t a werewolf—he didn’t have enough hair for that. But to be fair Jacob Black from the famous movie franchise Twilight didn’t have much hair either—he had seemed to lose hair somehow after his translation—how did that even work. Either way grouping the Holy Father with the breed of werewolves just seemed odd.

 

And plus,,, you weren’t really a furry so—no, you’d never fuck a wolf, hairy things didn’t help you get your rocks off—they weren’t smooth and silky enough. Seals on the other hand… maybe even beluga whales… also have you heard about this specific kind of species of spiders? “One that can detach their penis to block the sperm inside of the vagina to avoid spermatic competition? A wholesome buttblug if you want my opinion. Gentle buttplug. A good buttplug. Best plug. Nature really is beautiful. Next time we will talk about the ducks’ explosive dicks. Another fascinating topic ([ i swear it’s a thing ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qwjEeI2SmiU)).” The ducks’ dicks are almost as explosive as yours, but we won't tell anyone that.

 

You nodded appraisingly, staring at the extremely detailed and informative article that you had found. You realised that neither spiders nor furries were mythical beings but you understood that it was best to cover all your bases about absolutely everything and these categories seemed like the sort of thing that Vikutor would actually fit into. Alas it just didn’t seem right at all.

 

But back to seals though—could Viktaly probably be a selkie? You had heard about those creatures but after a few clicks on your laptop you were pretty sure that Viktopoanf couldn’t be one. Could Vinkty even sing—could he even swim? It all seemed so strange and foreign to you, not unlike the air of Spoons had felt on your soft, smooth golden Japanese skin.

 

You were sure Vinktoy had swam in the Baptist pool before—maybe those Russian iceholes that were shaped liked crosses, to really strengthen himself up for both Mother Russia and the Lord. Although the olden times selkies did have long flowing hair—that resembled waterfalls and all beautiful things. In this way there was weak resemblance. They were supposed to be extremely beautiful and even though you had hated him you couldn’t deny him of his beauty. None of the characteristics seemed to fit. Shame. You might have wanted to fuck a seal.

 

You were allowed to fuck the seal if Biktopopopooo turned out to be one. But maybe you wouldn’t fuck him because you hated him with a passion—he had ruined your entire life with a single glance and it probably hadn’t even meant anything to him even when your whole life had started to come crashing down around you. It was the world's biggest tragedies and you weren’t entirely sure how you were going to cope. Plus the seal ideals just didn’t fit at all. You sighed melodramatically.

 

Would you really have wanted to fuck Vonk if he were a seal though? Let's be honest, you’d have prefered it if he were a sea lion. But then the burning Japanese rage returned and you realised that of course you wouldn’t: You hated him. How dare he rock ruin your world just by existing, who gave him the right?

 

You hated his beautiful supernatural ass and his beautiful hypothetical seal form or sea lion or sea creature form. Viksealionertor was certainly not a beautiful selkie who could swim gracefully through the water, sleek and one with the water. He was certainly not free in the water, a majestic being swimming in the waves. Certainly not. And you were certainly too smart to accidentally steal a selkie’s fur and accidentally forget about it the way a less aware protagonist would.

 

Or, talking about sea creatures, maybe was he actually a Hafgufa. You know about hafgufas and nordic stuff because you educated yourself on scandinavia as you know that two place with a cold weather obviously have similar myths and you definitely wanted to know more about the ways of detroit people.Hafgufu (yeah you are also lowkey fluent in old Norwegian) is a water related thing so big it could actually pass for an island and let’s be real that’s the definition of Viklitoris’s dick. Or so you guess. You can’t be sure so better give up on this hypothesis.

 

 

Oh, and speaking of protagonists a paragraph back, you wouldn’t be strangled by the red string of fate like _some protagonists. Some protagonists_ is of course in reference to protagonists whose story arcs fall prey to common tropes.  Your story arc was the achievement of spiritual enlightenment, getting nearer to God through painting your spoons. Exalting art to its highest form. Obviously. You would surmount your thesis—not Bigvictdicktors perfect, beautiful, magnificent _polla_ , with just the right amount of curve for your hungry, hungry ass. You weren’t evil enough to keep the readers wondering what polla meant, so you promptly translated it as the wrong European Spanish way to say cock.

 

Never say _polla_. It is wrong and European Spanish is wrong. European Spanish is the devil, just like Bigdicktor. Kill it with fire.

 

Viktingrad was Russian, you thought—you had known this fact but perhaps you should have looked into Russian mythology. All you knew about Russia was the [ cottage cheese ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10711479/chapters/23729820) and of course the onion domes and spoon painting culture. And of course, mayo and slav squatting.

 

Man/woman/non-binary reader (it really seemed like you were getting Americanised), you could really go for some [ cottage cheese ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10711479/chapters/23729820) right now. Is your water-related being guess really so far off? You thought. A google search turned up that there were Rusalka, slavic water nymphs. Water nymphs were either elegant creatures who brought life-giving moisture to provide the lands with fertility or seductive ghosts that sought to drown your soul as they once drowned.

 

Vikaltorsul was not the least bit elegant or fertile or seductive, he was likely not a rusalka. But then again… it seemed the most likely option… It seemed that Viktor was closest to a Rusalka you decided.

 

With such a large amount of research you felt unbearably satisfied. You needed to confront him about this—you needed to talk to him. You still were not sure what sort of creature he was, but you knew that he wasn’t human, and your knowledge and curiosity burned within your heart. Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough, you thought, lying in your bed, your heart racing.

 

Tomorrow did come—Viktor didn’t, and you hoped he didn’t come in _that_ way either. Yakov was taking his class again. You managed to suppress the surge of disappointment which would have made your heart ache, and continued through the day. But then he wasn’t there the next day. Or the next.

 

Days had passed since your initial research and your hate was dampening like a limp noodle. It seemed that no matter what was happening Vikttaor Cullen just wouldn’t show up to his spoon painting class. Every day that he wasn’t there your school day would just pass in a meaningless blur.

 

You’d thought that the rain of Spoons and the sad depressing climate could be more bearable in the presence of your ultimate rival that you surely and devotedly had hated but this was becoming too much. Your heart was starting to ache with the loss of his very being and every time you saw that Stammi Vicino spoon it seemed to make more sense to you.

 

How dare he make you feel that way. You had never done anything to Viktor and yet he made you feel so small inside, your heart bearing an unspeakable burden.

 

Maybe you hadn’t known Viktor Cullen for very long but there had been an unmistakable spark, a crescendo that had built up from his heart and seemed to be spreading to his mind. But your mind was a rational actor and you couldn’t just take your heart’s bullshit at face value—so you quashed these feelings, whatever they may have been.

 

It hurt, you realised dimly sitting alone in your small red apartment, the rain a harsh maddening pitter patter against your window. It hurt a lot—and you didn’t understand why. Somehow, you felt responsible.

 

* * *

 

The heavy feeling in your heart was still weighing down upon you the next day as you made your way towards your group of friends. You knew were starting to worry them because you had been remembering their names and this cloud of listlessness that hung over you seemed almost substantial and physical to the point that it was almost visible to others. Mila was chewing her lips, staring at you worriedly. You knew you had bags under your eyes and your skin felt dry and your hair greasy.

 

Somehow you managed a shaky smile, settling beside her, and Georgi (you had forgiven him for almost running you over) shot you a tentative smile in return.

 

You went to class together with Milano, Vicktore still wasn’t there. You think Milli may have noticed how dead inside you felt. Or maybe she just noticed how your golden japanese skin was losing its glow. It could have been the constantly disappointing weather of the shitty town of Spoons, for all she knew, but she noticed nonetheless.

 

Eventually, the writers couldn’t think of a way to write you in class without sounding trite and repetitive, so plot progression happened in Milha asking you to go shopping with her. Ultimately the rest of the day passed without any fanfare, nothing plot-relevant would have happened while you were moping around hoping that Viquetor would come back for you to hate. Technically you could have skipped class, even if it was a really bad first impression to give to your professors. But I mean, this is the same school where all the professors are like, dating each other, so it's not like these things really matter.

 

It mattered little, you only had like two classes, one of which was spoon painting with Father Viqtor. The day gave way to the weekend. You waited sitting in a chair in front of your window, to the background music of some emo band or something as the montage faded to black and you woke up the next day. The emo music vaguely reminded you of that one secondary character. Who was that? oh, Spikehead or whatever his name was. He was not important. (somewhere Georgi wipes away his running eyeshadow as his girlfriend dumps him- but you were the main character of this show so surely his girlfriend didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things.)

 

You looked at yourself in your full-length mirror you had somewhere in your room, probably on your door, or your closet, maybe even on your ceiling like Frida Khalo. Seeing the golden japanese glow of your skin disappear due to the passing depression… You felt the flames of your hate for Vigdicktor be fanned. It was his fault he was so beautiful, so ethereal. And it was his fault that he disappeared for like, two days. Or was it three? It was a long time though.

 

Time stopped mattering because Biquetor wasn’t there, and it infuriated you. You could stare at yourself all day you thought but the saddest most depressing part was that you’d only be able to see a hard I-miss-someone dick and the miserable eyes of someone that thought they went to suffer to the Huitzilopochtli-forsaken town of Spoons for the sake of a spoon-painting degree, and found the hate of their life.

 

You didn’t know what such eyes were supposed to look like. It was a description that wouldn’t hold under scrutiny, but you imagined they looked a lot like yours, so you went with that. Your golden, amber orifices like melting gold and honey mixed together were losing their almost vampiric Edward Cullen glow, you were fading like the ten thousandth candle in the wind. You felt tears well up in your eyes, but no, you couldn’t cry—it wasn’t like you’d been separated from someone important—it was just Binktor.

 

You changed into a crop top with crosses and spoons printed in a beautiful holy pattern and shrugged an open plaid shirt over it, and leggings that hugged your legs perfectly. You completed your definitely unique, but that would look better if your skin regained its glow, outfit with some studded boots or something.

 

You waited for Mille at home, since she agreed to pick you up.

 

You never gave her your address.

 

Wow what plot progression, I almost forgot there even was one!!! Good one you, Yuuri!  Your life is like it was planned in some sort of checkpoint list, as if it were a guideline _every author should check_. wow.

 

Your mind drifted after realizing you didn't give her your address, because you (not so) secretly don't care about all these secondary characters. It drifted back to your smokin hot nemesis who probably has a very gratuitous члeн (вау!!!), Vikrfkasfs. You thought briefly, “Майонез в моем анусе был бы райским наслаждением.” Oops you had thought in russian again. What did that even mean? Who knew- Probably about how much you hated him.

 

Your brain understood much more Russian than you could speak yourself, so your brain translated what you had just said into your native language so you could understand. You sighed in relief as your brain told you what you had said was: ‘Mayonnaise in my anus would be heavenly.’

 

“Почему бы нам не заняться этим приятным времяпровождением, а именно коитусом с этим милым млекопитающим чуть позднее, любовь моя? Насладимся же майонезом сейчас.” Thoughts in Russian have got to stop sometime soon, otherwise you would surely go insane. [плачет по-русски] You didn’t even want to translate these sentences, so vile they were for your pure Mary Sue mind.

 

Don't put mayo in your anus...maggots love that kink. But since this is a work of fiction, of course you can put mayonnaise in your ass and even enjoy it without any consequences whatsoever. Later you’ll find out that putting condiments into any and all orifices is a favorite pastime of your future husband’s—and current nemesis.

 

Mile arrived while you were pondering on weird mayonnaise shit in a language you don’t actually know. She took you in mindless chattering to the neighboring small city of Blackbird where plot progression seemed to go smoothly and without weird mayonnaise thoughts. On the other hand, everyone in Blackbird seemed to know too much about european history.

 

There was sun, though, so you were grateful to Mali for taking you shopping there. Hopefully, even with Viquecocktor’s absense, you’d be able to regain your golden japanese glow with the sun. Not that your skin glowed when Vikdickbinksinkthinkthiccalphanoodledick was around, that almost suggested you loved him, or at least wanted his big strong stroganoff in your- haha where were we?

 

You went with Mahl to another crucifixes shop. At first glance you thought it was an ‘adult store’, but then you realized you're just a sick clergy-kink riddled teen and it was in fact, a crucifix shop.

 

You had a surprisingly good time, buying crucifixes and all that good holy paraphernalia with Milla. You didn’t purchase another rosary though, yours was perfect. It had the perfect texture, and the beads were warm on your hand as you clutched them loosely. The subtle indents of every bead pressing into your skin, one of your innermost desires.

 

Unfortunately—fortunately!—, crucifixes shops were the only shops in Spoons. No stores, you wondered to yourself. Yes, no stores. At all. There were only Crucifixes shops. And cottage cheese. But [ cottage cheese ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10711479/chapters/23729820) and crucifixes were so easy to mistake for one another (in my butt!!!), you didn’t even make a distinction anymore. What’s in your ass? A crucifix? Some [ cottage cheese ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10711479/chapters/23729820)? Mayo??? Who knows? Same thing, eh.

 

Mila had already said goodbye while you were thinking about the [ cottage cheese ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10711479/chapters/23729820) (crucifix?) that may or may not be in your ass, and it had already become nighttime. You never even noticed Tails leave, she was after all a secondary character, and of little relevance on your life as anything other than a cheap plot device.

 

You were functionally alone in the small city of Blacktomato([ fettucine ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10582911?view_adult=true))/Blackbirb (it had many names, just like a certain holy man), away from home and with no way to return to Spoons—as much as you hated the thought of returning to ever-raining Spoons. You didn’t know how to drive a car, you were a main character after all, and you needed endearing flaws that didn’t include your uncontrollable thirst for holy men.

 

You were walking aimlessly waiting for plot progression to either take you home, or make something interesting happen. The city of Blackbird was lit- in both senses, the crucifix shops were alight and you could hear the din of holy hymns in the background. The whole place felt surreal to you, otherworldly, even the lamp-posts somehow looked more phallic. It seemed that plot progression was more partial to the second option. You weren’t going to complain- As a main character, the plot had protected you from many dangers. But, alas, it couldn’t protect you from your thirst for that Dicktor.

 

Some dudes you imagined were named Chad—because let’s be honest, anyone acting like that is bound to be named Chad— y’all know the type. Those man-buns and those ugly shirts and shorts with leather loafers- were offering to… take you home? But, interestingly enough, they were asking to… smell your feet first? How strange. You definitely didn’t want their Chad germs near your feet, so you politely declined by kicking one of them right in the nuts, even though you were allergic to nuts- another lovely flaw you as a Mary-Sue had, with the foot he wanted to smell and probably wanted to to shove up his ass.

 

With his bag of almonds completely crumbled, Chad 1 fell to his knees in a mocking attempt to pray to the Lord above. The Lord wasn’t hearing him, but his fellow Chads tried to take revenge for Chad 1’s almonds and jumped you. They couldn’t even touch one hair on your beautiful head, before a holy blur—a holy ghost, if you will, a holy thirst, if you have dabbled in the thirst arts before—jumped to your defense.

 

It was Viktor. He had just slid in there on his holy heelies, a blur, a breathtaking mirage. It seemed you wouldn’t be getting a car back to Spoons after all. He looked beautiful though, your exotic Japanese breath caught in your throat.

 

Before you could even describe the scene, and because the authors didn’t know how to narrate a fighting scene, all the Chads that had been on the street disappeared into Viquetopvelociraptor’s mouth. He had just vored all the Chads. That was it. He opened his mouth, and they just disappeared.

 

You didn’t want to think about the logistics of it, and why Viquetor didn’t seem bloated at all. It seemed like all the Chads had disappeared into a dimensional pocket within Vicktore’s mouth. Was that a spot of something thick and white on his chin, you wondered. It faintly smelled of mayonnaise, but surely it must have been your imagination.

 

You saw a lone pistachio on the ground, rolling. You didn’t know why a pistachio was on the floor, you only remembered almonds. Maybe Chad 1 was actually carrying a bag of mixed nuts. You were just so allergic to nuts, you could already feel a rash break out on your skin. Viquetor was fast to respond to your distress and vored the pistachio as well. Phew! The Chads almost ended you even after they've been vored by Viqtinqwinqsinqsucqmydinqvonqneqforqdiqtor!

 

“Are you okay?” Viquetor asked in his beautiful, heavy Gru accent. You could almost not understand anything of what he said, his accent was so heavy. It made your cock hard, solid even. It made you want to be his minion right then and there, on the ground, in public. My, what kinks you had! Instead you didn’t of course - You still hated Bitkeotnpop - Why do you always keep forgetting this?

 

“Юра, мы же на публике, контролируй себя!”, he chuckled with an endearing lopsided smile. And since most of the readers of this masterpiece probably do not speak Russian, your mind translated his words for the readers but not for you - “Yura, we’re in public, control yourself!”

 

Since Viquetor reading your mind was a plotpoint, you didn’t understand anything of what he said. It was probably something stupid and beautiful, like his sermons, or his ass (and especially his thicc dicc— a true instrument of Holiness).

 

His russian words made your polla extra hard, you most certainly couldn’t control yourself, especially when so many :eyes: were on you.

 

You suddenly realized for the umpteenth time that you needed to actually answer the question.  
You didn’t even remember the question. It seemed like it didn’t matter, since Viqeutor just nodded—almost as if he could read your mind—and offered his hand to you. It was all very romantic, if it weren’t for your neverending hate for him. You expressed sexual frustration much like young women on the tungle; through hyperbolic vitriol, it was the only outlet you had.

 

Bigtop offered to buy you dinner as some sort of convoluted apology for… you… having had trouble? If anything you should be the one buying Binktop dinner, but you weren’t going to complain. Vicctor was already insisting that “It’s not necessary, Yuuri. My treat!”

 

His Gru accent was very hot, you wondered why it kept getting stronger every time you thought about it. It was almost as if he knew or something.

 

You allowed Viquetop to take you to some Italian restaurant with a lot of garlic. You wondered if he was trying to prove something to you. You already knew he was some sort of cryptid, he didn’t need to prove he was human by showing the natural human fixation with garlic bread.

 

You ordered a plate of mushroom ravioli, you were feeling vegetarian that day, and a glass of coke. Viquetor ordered nothing but a side of mayo. Yes, he only ordered mayonnaise.

 

“Are you really going to eat that?” you asked, you were already feeling slightly sick by just seeing the small plate of mayonnaise sitting in front of Vikictor. You usually weren’t one to judge but it felt like it may be a bit heavy and thick to just eat mayo alone- not that he cared about what Vedward was doing, he just didn’t want to witness it with his own two glowing face orbs.

 

“Of course, dear Yuuri,” Binktop said with his Gru accent, he grabbed a spoon—not painted, unfortunately, just regular silverware—and stuffed a spoonful of mayo on his mouth. You really did not want to question what was happening. You were feeling equally attacked and aroused. You could almost feel the texture of the mayonnaise on Vicktor’s mouth in the movement of his jaw.

 

You drank your glass of coke, and ordered another one. Maybe with enough coke you would be able to drown the lingering ghost taste of mayo. The sauce on your mushroom ravioli was so white, so creamy. You didn’t think you’d ever be able to separate mayonnaise, which by the way was still being eaten by Vicquetor, from anything on that restaurant. Ever.

 

You ate as many mushroom ravioli as you could. That was 2 whole pieces. You couldn’t stomach much more than that, not with the soft squelching sound of mayonnaise going into Viquetor’s vore-hole. You grabbed a piece of garlic bread and stuffed it into Vicktor’s mouth, there was a speck of mayo smeared on the corner of his mouth.

 

You stuffed a second piece of garlic bread in his mouth, then a third one for good measure.

 

Viquetor’s mouth was so full, you tried to not think about anything untoward concerning a holy man’s mouth, stuffed with a vaguely phallic object, off-white substance smeared on his lips.  

 

Vikctor smiled, his beautiful lips stretching around the pieces of garlic bread, greasy crumbs sticking to his chin and falling to his chest. Despite everything your head told you—you hated him, he ruined your life by just existing, he was too perfect—you felt warm. Not even in the sexual way, the heat of some sort of loving feeling seemed to be enveloping you. You felt confused.

 

After showing off how wide he could open his mouth he actually removed the garlic bread again from there, like he didn’t want to eat the bread at all. Well now you didn’t want to eat it anymore either- you thought dazedly as you stuffed them in your bag.

 

Thinking about it you realized you had actually never seen him eating anything at all, except for that serving of mayo earlier and the fuckbois who attacked you. But you weren’t really sure if the fuckbois shit was real or induced by too many nuts near you. You just went with the latter. You’d rather have an anaphylactic shock induced hallucination than a potential boyfriend rival who actually vored like.. five people.

 

No matter how cool that had been- it just wasn’t realistic, you thought. Your nut allergy really was out of control. Last time you had been near too many nuts, they’d induced you into thinking for around five seconds that consent wasn’t cool- you laughed at the nuts. They were fuckbois making you hallucinate.

 

* * *

 

You didn’t remember much of what you talked about with Viqwetor after having had your mushroom ravioli discarded. Everything had passed by in some sort of post-mayo haze. You did, however, remember Viqtor talking about his family, the tradition of participating in a holy lifestyle, and the family values instilled into him from years ago and how it affected his chosen investigation path of spoon-painting.

 

Among the absolute mayonnaisy chaos your day had become, you forgot to ask him if he was a seal or a dog or the chupacabra. You remembered your strong feelings towards finding out—understanding the real reason behind why you hated him so much. You wanted to know his past, his present, his very being, all for the sake of hate.

 

Regardless of what cryptid Binktop was, you wanted him to speak angry hate-french between your legs. The baguette and croissant resonated in your very being.

 

“Мой милый Юри, я бы с радостью поговорил по-французски меж твоих восхитительных ног, но не кажется ли тебе, свет очей моих, что для начала нам следует познакомиться поближе? Мы ведь даже еще не испили с тобой вместе божественного нектара, называемого обычными смертными майонезом!” Vicqtuore uttered. Your traitorous mind translated it as ‘something something speak french between your legs something something mayonnaise.’ You never thought that you would become a linguistic genius by painting spoons, but here you were.

 

When Biktuopo noticed that your google translating mind didn’t work as good for russian he started speaking english again. His accent wasn’t as bad as it was before and you wondered why he kept changing it. You could understand him perfectly, his voice smooth and silky like it wanted to hug you. Like velvet or silk or sandpaper, something equally as smooth—it send tingles down to your pinky toes.

 

“Why are you looking at me like I am the most despicable being in the whole world, Yuuri?”

You loved the way his tongue swirled around the letters of your name, it sounded foreign but beautiful. Most of the people you met weren’t able to pronounce your beautiful Japanese name the right way, and even though he could certainly do nearly anything Vikikeriki couldn’t pronounce it correctly either. But it didn’t matter because you liked the way he said your name. If you didn’t hate him so much you might have loved it even.

 

“I am not,” you tried to defend yourself, but you knew it wasn’t really convincing. “Look, I just think… Something weird is going on with you. You... How long have you been 28, Виктор?”

 

You were so absorbed in the way Fliktors eyes widened when you asked that question, how you could basically count all fifty shades of blue in those beautiful eyes. How you wanted to jump right into them because they looked like the most beautiful sea, liquid and warm and loving, ready to embrace you, that you didn’t notice that you actually called him by his real name for the first time,  with perfect pronunciation. You were are Mary-Sue after all—you obviously could pronounce things correctly if you just wanted to.

 

The silverette sighed and defeat was painted across his delicate features.

 

“A while now.”

 

You tried to hold back a gasp at this revelation. So he wasn’t human after all! You knew it. You didn’t know what he was now either, but you knew he wasn’t human. You couldn’t remember if any of the cryptids you googled were immortal but you suddenly did remember the fanfiction you found when you misspelled Kikitops name. The gay ice skater guy was dating a vampire. A Vampire.

 

Vampire...  You were sure vampires were immortal. Could he be such an ordinary creature? Because let’s be real: everyone was a vampire nowadays. Was Vinktor… a vampire?

 

You turned to gaze at him imploringly, your eyes searching his face for an understanding of what was happening. You felt like someone had pulled the floor from beneath your feet and you were falling into an endless black (like your soul) abyss, while the falling part of that evanescence song played over and over again.

 

Vickward was possibly a vampire. You felt your breath catch. Did you care about this new piece of information? You weren’t entirely sure. Vinktip was staring back at you, his deep, gorgeous blue eyes tracing over your facial features like a soft caress, a chicken feather if you will. You blinked, feeling your long black oiled lashes gently skimming your cheekbones and you heard Ediktor sigh.

 

This whole thing had made you unbelievably exhausted. A bone deep weariness intruded you. You wanted to take some time to think. To process this information you had just received about the very thing that defined your arch rival.

 

“Let me take you home Yuuri,” you heard him say softly, and your eyes fluttered open to look at him. His eyes on your golden, glowing visage felt like the biggest treasure anyone could have bestowed upon you, and your stomach twisted awkwardly at that thought. You looked away from his eyes landing to his general mouth area.

 

There were still splashes of mayo sticking to the edge of his face and without really thinking about it you leaned forward brushing them off his skin, and licking your finger to clean them off. The taste of mayo invaded your senses almost immediately. Maybe it wasn’t just the taste of mayonnaise, God’s own semen, but maybe it was also the taste of Ginkytop’s skin. The natural spicy but sweet, musky and not too overpowering, rich floral scent. It tasted like heaven and you had to hold yourself back from audibly moaning at the incredible flavour that had completely prevaded your senses into losing all common sense.

 

“You- I- You had something on your face,” you gestured awkwardly at his general mouth area and sat back down embarrassedly. Vinkly reached up to touch the edge of his mouth, his eyes slightly wide in either wonder and disgust. In some cases those two things walked a very fine line, but hopefully having your skin touching his skin wasn’t one of those scenarios. Even if it was, you didn’t care very much at all.

 

Of course, you didn’t care _at all._

 

“Oh,” he whispered.

 

“Yeah,” you roared awkwardly.

 

“Yuuri, do you-”

 

“Please take me home, Father,” you ejaculated tiredly. You mind was so tired and possibly unphased by being attacked by Chads that your normally blank, sliced white bread personality was more boring than usual. You had completely started to shut down as revelation after revelation hit you. You wondered how Jesus had managed to survive it.

 

You couldn’t even come up with good daddy jokes at that current point in time, and maybe that’s why all you could think about was how Jesus most definitely had as many fetishes as the whole of the weird side of the tumblr bdsm and ddlg society together. Let’s not forget to drag reddit and the 4chan cesspool, though—their edgy kinks can’t go unnoticed.

 

But back to the main point, Jesus seemed to have it all, foot fetish, masochism, getting literally nailed, possible beastiality, vore, you were sure you were missing a few out.

 

Vintop was looking at you with a strange expression, like he was constipated, but you supposed that may also just be his default face. You hurriedly got out of your seat, and Viktinkotabekwasrobbed threw a generous amount of money on the table that was probably way more than what needed to be paid for a plate of literally just mayo and twelve cokes and a mushroom ravioli, before standing too.

 

At least the waitress that had been lusting over _your_ man, you had noticed from the corner of your eye, was going to get a decent tip. For that you were happy, because, after all, you were charitable and generous.

 

You both made your way towards Vindward’s car, you were a bit unsteady so Vintoraus put his arm around you, and you ungratefully leaned into him. You could smell him even more distinctly, the vinegary smell of the mayo making your nose wrinkle cutely in longing and desire. He opened the door for you like the genteel-bean he was and you sat down, your heart doing that stupid fluttery thing again. A heart aneurysm.

 

You didn’t understand what this feeling was, and you were starting to think that having feelings were stupid and you never wanted to. You just wanted to paint beautiful spoons. Spoons that would wow the world.

 

The car ride was mostly silent, your heart in your throat not from Edwicktor’s presence but from how horrifically badly he drove. He needed a dashcam. You thought you’d die as you clutched the door handle, your knuckles whitening from the death grip you had on them.

 

“My Yuuri,” he said in his beautiful deep saccharine tone. You squeaked in response because somehow Vinktwig was driving on the wrong side of the motorway and you could see death approaching rapidly. “You look cold, Kißka,” he susurrated amorously.

 

Your teeth were indeed clattering, but it was from the fear of losing your precious Japanese life than it was from the cold.

 

Viktogreyhair swung his arm around you carelessly, and you felt like you were ascending to another dimension. Probably because that was one less hand on the steering wheel and you were going too fast, and death was so close. And maybe Vigly didn’t care because he was immortal, but sadly you didn’t have that privilege.

 

“Take my rosewood rosary, I painted it myself, I’ve heard it can provide _warmth_ to you when you most need it.” He punctuated warmth with a wink, you felt warmer already.

 

Somehow you managed to reach your apartment in one piece. With the rosary clutched in your hands, you realised how burning hot it actually was. You shakily made your way out of his car, his cold hand caressing yours, and your heart swelled. The heart condition was back.

 

* * *

 

Back in your room, freshly showered and in your warmest crop top and booty shorts with crosses on them you studied the rosary beads closely. There was an earthly calm that had settled over you as you had listened to the Beetlehiven and Mozartella cheese music in his car, and it had carried its way into your apartment with the rosary beads.

 

You took a deep breath, looking at the absolutely breathtaking designs on the beads. They all conveyed so much emotion, like it was showing a different stage of Vibly’s life through each bead. There was the bondage era, a sweet gentle flowery era which conveyed purity and contentment, and then it was getting lonelier, and lonelier. Maybe you were reading too much into the high class rosary beads that had been handed to you. Maybe you weren’t reading into them enough. Potato, potatoe, apples and oranges. All that shit.

 

Maybe it was finally time to stop lying to yourself.

 

Because of three things you were absolutely positive.

 

First, Viktor was a vampire.

 

Secondly, there was a part of you, and you didn’t know how potent that part may be, that thirsted for his beautifully shapely, feather boa length dicktor, his amazing long fingers, and every part of him it seemed.

 

And third, you were completely and irrevocably not in hate with him.

 

After this revelation you couldn’t hold yourself back.

 

You couldn’t help but think about Viquetor. You thought about how he appeared suddenly to save you from the Chad’s that wanted to smell your feet, wondered how it was possible that he had been there in the right place, at the right time to save you.

 

Now that you knew, however, that ViKiCtor was a vampire, things started to make sense, if only slightly. He could have arrived in a cloud of bats, or smoke, or something cool like that. Too fast for your human mind to comprehend, and just in time to sweep you off your feet and invite you to dinner along the way.

 

Your mind drifted as you fidgeted with the rosary beads, you had a vivid picture in your mind of Vicquetour. You could see perfectly from your mind’s eye how Victor’s mayo-stained lips curled around the three (3) pieces of garlic bread, a scene you may or may not have hallucinated at the time.

 

You thought again of how those beautiful, oily lips would curl around your cock instead. Binktop would take all your length easily, with the dimensional pocket on his vore-hole. Hopefully he wouldn’t swallow you completely, and you would still be able to feel the universe swimming in his mouth, cold like space, and warm with Vilptor’s not-hate.

 

You could feel your cock getting hard at the thought of Victkor on his knees, praising you like he would praise the Lord. Rosary still curled around your hand, you removed your booty shorts and freed your dick.

 

Fortunately you didn't wear underwear that day, all the time you were in Blackbird you were sure everyone could see the shape of your perfect cock under your leggings. Victour could see your cock, how it was nestled comfortably under the cloth.

 

You laid on the single seater sofa you had passed your depression montage on, looking through the window. No one would see you, not through the rain and mist of miserable Spoons, but you could definitely see Bigtop’s silvery tresses on the fall of the rain. You gave your dick a swift caress with your rosary-entangled hand to slightly relieve the pressure on your straining length, then moved swiftly down your balls.

 

You fondled them softly, then pressed the rosary beads a bit harder on your testicles. You were starting to breathe more heavily, soft pants coming measuredly out of your mouth in a mockery of control. You leaned to your left, and reached with your other hand to where you were sure you left a bottle of lube from the night you had spent watching Father Bliptor’s sermons.

 

You squeezed some bacon-flavoured lube onto your rosary hand, and brought it back to your testicles as you let the lube bottle fall to the floor. You shuffled your right leg up into the armrest to give yourself better access where you wanted your hand to be.

 

You moved your rosary-entangled hand from your balls to your pink pucker, as you moved your other hand to your neck in a soft caress. You pressed with your fingers, feather-light, to the front of your throat, feeling the slight difficulty in swallowing and breathing it resulted in, and felt your cock start to weep against your abdomen.

 

You teased your asshole as your hand slid down your throat to settle on your chest. You let the tip of your middle finger slide into your anus, then you shuffled the rosary beads closer to your rim so you could feel the delicious friction of each bead. You let your finger slide in and out of your hole. You still wanted more.

 

You had a small pang of regret for having dropped the lube bottle, as you wished you had more lube to pour into your hand. You had used enough, you hoped. Your dry hand slid up to you mouth, you started sucking your fingers. Two, three fingers would never be close enough to the girth of Viquetor’s dick, but you hoped you would be able to suck on it fully one day, if he permitted.

 

For now, your fingers had to do. You let your fingers drift as deep as they could into your mouth, feeling saliva start pooling under your tongue, then spill out from the corner of your mouth, down your chin, into your chest. All the while you were absently playing with your middle finger on your rim.

 

You pulled your fingers from your mouth, a string of saliva still connecting them, and then your brought your spit-coated fingers to your neglected dick. You imagined Father Bigtop’s fingers on your cock instead of yours, caressing your length as he had caressed your cheek before. Softly.

 

Your middle finger was now going into your asshole with much more ease, so you slid your index finger there as well, felt the rosary beads open your hole like your own fingers alone had never done before. The added thickness of the rosary beads, uneven enough for your rim to have a small resistance every time you slid his fingers back in, was intoxicating.

 

You could feel your heart hammer against your ribcage as you stroked your cock and fingered your ass. Your breaths were coming out faster, ragged and uneven. You slowed down the motions of your hands, your leg still draped on the armrest of the sofa, and the rosary beads coiled around two of your fingers still pressing into your walls.

 

You allowed your breathing to even out, until you felt a bit more in control of your body, despite the control over your needs you intellectually knew you lacked. Once your heart rate slowed down, you started to move your fingers again, first in your ass, then the hand that was resting on your cock.

 

You fondled your balls again, pulled them up as you inserted a third finger into your ass, the unfortunate lack of lube showing in its slight friction. You started to leave small sections of the rosary in your ass as you pulled your fingers out, pushing more in with every thrust back.

 

The texture of each bead, lovingly painted by Bigdicktor, small indents and solid paint on the wooden beads. You could swear you could feel every single brushstroke on your anus. Victour’s work, his passion for his field of study, you were feeling all of that inside you.

 

Your heart rate and breathing picked up again, you were starting to feel more and more uncoordinated, your hand jerking without rhythm around your cock, and your fingers deep in your ass, caressing the spot that made your breath hitch, the rosary beads adding a delicious, uneven pressure, and the heat you coveted.

 

You could only feel the cross dangling outside your ass now, feeling how it pressed into your rim, you pressed your thumb to your cockhead, pulled the foreskin on and off your head every time you jerked your hand back.

 

Rosary deep on your ass, and Binktop’s name on your lips, you came on your stomach with a hot spurt of semen. You gave your cock a couple more jerks before you removed your hand, then you took your fingers off your asshole, keeping the rosary inside, a temporal reminder of Viquetour inside of you.

 

You wiped your stomach with the lemon wipes you kept on your nightstand, kept for emergencies like the flu, and, of course, masturbation. You removed the rest of your clothes and tumbled to your bed and under the bed sheets.

 

The warm rosary beads weren’t Vikter, not quite, but you could feel them closely, intimately, and you would gladly take anything you could get.

 

* * *

 

The next day you looked forward to your classes because you were sure Vikteurieur would be back and ready to teach you more about the wonderful world that was spoon painting.

 

Unfortunately you couldn’t focus on the class or the material Vixtueri was teaching you because the only thing you could focus on was his magnificent butt. You nervously shifted on your chair, feeling the beads of the rosary that was still inside your puckered hole move.

 

That movement alone sent waves of pleasure roll through your body and you had to hold back a moan, when one bead grazed your most sensitive spot.

 

The rosary felt so hot inside of you, and you thought about Lickmore again. You should talk to him after class and say thank you once again, for everything he did for you. And maybe give him the rosary back once you actually got it out of your butt.

 

Your realization from last night still confused you so much. Were you really in love with Viktoru? You hated him but… Why, exactly? You weren’t sure anymore because there were at least 15k words between now and the moment you started to hate him—who exactly expected you to remember the actual reason?

 

Maybe you could just… Stop hating him. Or not. You were very confused and very horny. Did that make you bi? Well, sexuality in itself was a construct—or maybe it wasn’t, there was a whole lot of garbage being fed to your generation regarding this stuff since you were young but you didn’t want to delve too deep into these issues. As deep as the rosary that was nestled into your tight pink hole.

 

Anyways. You probably loved Viktiknteur now because he was hot and saved your life. You really didn’t need any other reason.

 

Now that your inner monologue was done the bell rang conveniently. You got up and went to your beloved Father, your heart beat speeding up and somehow jostling the rosary in your ass to provide you with the most beautiful friction—heaven on earth—heaven in your ass. It literally didn’t even matter anymore.

 

“I… Uh… I wanted to talk to you about something. Could you- Maybe… meet me at lunch?” you stuttered while probably looking really awkward. Your hands twisted in your plaid shirt and you looked up at him from under your coal black lashes.

 

“Of course, Yuuri,” Vektor said and you melted once again.

 

You left the classroom and hurried into the toilets. Once you were inside of one of the stalls you freed yourself from your pants and boxers and pulled at the rosary, letting out a drawn out moan. It felt so good to finally let it loose.

 

Pulling the rosary out of your ass sent shivers down your spine and the urge to jerk off rapidly rose. You refrained from touching yourself though. You wanted to meet Vkitlkitor in a few minutes after all and getting off now would result in you being late. Biting your lip, you tried to collect yourself.

 

You thought of Yakov and Lilia in throes of passionate love making to possibly help your boner die down, but it seemed to have the opposite effect. Damnit. You needed to pull yourself together. You tried your breathing exercises, and then thinking of all those Chad’s you’d encountered, wanting to smell your feet. The thoughts immediately served their purpose, your erection shrivelling up.

 

You pulled your boxers and pants back up and left the stall to clean the rosary.

 

You thanked the Lord because the sanitizer bottle in this toilet was for once not empty and you had the chance to thoroughly clean the rosary beads before returning them.

 

A few minutes later you stepped into the cafeteria your eyes searching for the familiar frame of Viktik. It only took you half a minute until you spotted the silver haired man. You walked over to him, your hands clamming up with sweat and you wiped them on your shirt.

 

The walk to him felt like walking down the aisle of church—not that you wanted to ever do that haha—nope. But it was a church aisle because Viltop was a priest. You finally reached him, and awkwardly™ sat down opposite of him.

 

“I came to return the rosary I borrowed.” You mumbled coquettishly. Kinktop looked at you with a smug smile plastered on his face.

 

“Finished already?” he asked. There was an innuendo in there that you wanted to unlock but you couldn’t. You were too dense for that—even more dense than the red sea and this can be confirmed by one of the authors, they’ve been to the dead sea.

 

“Oh I couldn’t put it down,” you answered, feeling yourself go as red as the y*utube logo. If you don’t know what the y*utube logo is, get out of here.

 

“If you like it all that much, it’s yours.”

 

“But, Витя…”

 

“I insist!” he howled gently.

 

“Well thank you, thank you very much!” you languished softly.

 

You watched him toy with an apple, those long fingers playing with the stem in the most enchanting way.  You pulled out your bottle of holy water that you liked to drink to calm you down. You unscrewed the lid fumbling a little with it, but then he looked down, stealing your bottle lid and then spinning it on its side between his fingers.

 

You stared at him, wondering why you didn't feel afraid. He meant what he was saying—that was obvious. He wanted you to have his rosary beads. It was something else. But you just felt anxious, on edge… and, more than anything else, fascinated. The same way you always felt when you were near him.

 

After this exchange you somehow got ‘Belle’s Song’ from Beauty and the Beast stuck in your head and you had no idea why. Maybe Vinkly was the beast—maybe Vorener was the furry. Either way, it didn’t matter, your heart was thumping loudly, the new rosaries in your possession burning against your leg where they rested in your pocket.

 

“Did you look at the paintings on the rosary, Киска?” he chuckled,his voice was velvety like satin.

You flushed at the implication behind the sweet smooth Lenin tongue that fell from Vilenin’s mouth. You could only bask in it’s beauty—your language kink rearing it’s wonderfully diverse and multicultural head.

 

You wanted him to speak croissant between your legs, and recite the communist manifesto’s sweet nothings in the curve of your neck until you both fell asleep to the sound of his beautiful voice. You wanted to be his love and life, his pu tu tu lay as it would be in burmese, as he played with the rosaries he’d just bestowed upon you hung out of your tight, and wonderful butthole.

 

You did look at the beads once you were inside your apartment (even though you had more important things to do at that time—like shoving them up your ass) and you remembered how beautiful they were.

 

“I- I might have, do they have a story, Father?” You asked hesitantly, making sure to keep your eyes on Kinkly’s long fingers. They reminded you of salad fingers, you wanted them in your ass like the rosary had been. You weren’t paying attention to Victour as he talked about the meaning behind those tantalizing beads, that travelled so softly between your ass cheeks, because you were sure that for plot convenience sake his tragic backstory would be repeated, and you’d be slightly more sated so you paid attention.

 

“So that’s how I deescoverrrreed my ass painteeng hobbee,” he was back to Gru accent you noticed. It was seductive in its own way, you wanted to paint yourself yellow, wear overalls and fall to your knees for him. You wanted to forget how to communicate in a mutual language and start using garbled sounds to convey your thirst and want and desire for his long, horse dick. You would be the minion to his Gru a hundred thousand times over. But then his words started ringing in your ears. _‘Ass Painteeng hobbee’_ You licked your lips in response. The image was so vivid in your mind. _‘Ass painteeng hobbee.’_

 

Was it painting his ass or painting with his ass? Either way _God_ you wanted to see that so deliciously badly. You could almost feel the skin of that amazing God butt in the palms of your hands if you concentrated hard enough. And you were hard enough. Maybe you had concentrated too hard.

 

_‘Ass painteeng hobbee.’_

 

“I’ve also won the Ass Painteeng Prix Finals five times in a row,” he postulated. That got you fired up immediately, maybe your hate boner _hadn’t_ completely died down after all. You bit your lip thinking about this strange but arousing hobby Gwythyr had. It made your dick stir in your pants.

 

“What is ass painting, Father?” you spleened seductively.

 

“Жопная Живопись, или ЖЖ, Юри, - это высшая форма искусства. Её появление датируется далеко к годам самого Иисуса Христа. Видишь, мой дорогой Махеев, сам Господь даровал нам наши ягодицы с одной лишь целью, и целью этой является Живопись. Мы были рождены, чтобы творить, Бри, и самый лучший способ - это использовать наши булки. Нет ничего прекраснее, чем процесс сотворения шедевра, включающий в себя самую прекрасную часть нашего тела. То, каким способом ты собираешься создавать прекрасное, зависит только от тебя, горячий ты пельмешок. Тут уж куда твоя душа, или правильнее сказать, твоя шхера, зовёт. Ты можешь найти  свое призвание в расписывании прелестных ягодиц  словно яйца на Пасху. Я не видел ничего прекраснее багажника, выглядевшего как яйцо Фаберже. Кистями могут быть как и твои сочные, как пельмень, полушария, так и настоящие кисти, сжатые твоим пердимоноклем. Способ использования своей хлеборезки не играет большого значения здесь, Юри, ведь самое главное - это чувствовать связь между красками, своим экватором и Господом Богом. Плодом вдохновения является результат полового акта шептала и красок. Невероятные творения, получающиеся в результате этого вида Живописи, достойны висеть в галереях в одном ряду с  таких известных художников как Майкилоджейло Бавренотти, Распутнель Свонти, Бинктор Васяцшов и Павло Болоньезе. Могу поклясться, что больше половины картин в Эрмитаже являются произведениями Жопной Живописи. Многие творцы по всему миру использовали свои афердоны для создания того, что сейчас люди признают бессмертными шедеврами всемирного искусства. Нет в мире ничего более вдохновляющего и прекрасного, чем самовыражение и имитация окружающего нас мира, в процесс которых вложено использование наших жэ. Разве это не восхитительно, Юри?” explained Bigcocktor.

 

Your Russian was bad and you didn't understand much. You were getting kind of angry at Vikititkp for randomly switching language in the middle of the conversation. It was rude, okay? _Did he really call you a hot pelmen?_ But the authors were not monsters and to make it easier for our readers here is the google translation:

 

‘An asshole painting, or JJ, Uri, is the highest form of art. Its appearance dates back to the years of Jesus Christ himself. You see, my dear Maheyev, the Lord Himself has given us our buttocks with only one purpose, and the purpose of this is Painting. We were born to create, Bree, and the best way is to use our rolls.

 

There is nothing more beautiful than the process of creating a masterpiece, which includes the finest part of our body. The way you are going to create the beautiful, depends only on you, you hot pel'meshok. At this point, where does your soul, or more correctly, your schera, call? You can find your calling in painting charming buttocks like eggs for Easter. I saw nothing more beautiful than the trunk, which looked like an egg Faberge. Brushes can be juicy, like pelmen, hemisphere, and real brushes, compressed by your periminocle.

 

The way you use your bread cutter does not matter much here, Jüri, because the most important thing is to feel the connection between colors, your equator and Lord God.’

‘The fruit of inspiration is the result of the sexual act of whispering and paints. The incredible creations resulting from this type of Painting are worthy of hanging in the galleries alongside such famous artists as Mikilojailo Bavrenotti, Rasputnel Svonti, Bruce Victor Vasjatshov and Paulo Bolognese.

I can swear that more than half of the paintings in the Hermitage are works of Sophisticated Painting. Many creators around the world have used their affordances to create what people now recognize as immortal masterpieces of world art. There is nothing more inspirational and beautiful in the world than the self-expression and imitation of the world around us, in the process of which the use of our Jeh is embedded. Is not it delicious, Uri.’ His Gru accent was thicker than holodets, and it suddenly you were hit by a thunderbolt of inspiration.

 

You knew what you had to do when you got home.

 

* * *

 

Your clothes were on the ground as soon as you entered the apartment, the rosary clutched in your hand probably leaving indents into your skin. You ran to your closet to search for the biggest sheet of paper you could find, and finding that huge sheet of elephant paper you laid it on the ground.

 

Now for the paints! You had ‘borrowed’ some from vïʔk̟̚˧ˀ˦ tɔ˧˧’s class and you set them up in order by your favourite colours. Blue, a darker shade of blue, prussian blue, Baby blue, an ocean blue, a sky blue, the other ten shades of blue you had found. And a nice black.

 

None of those shades could compare to the bleu in Vích to’s eyes. Other than that, you pulled out fifty shades of grey (real colors not the book) because you were edgy and you needed grey for an authentic soft grunge master piece.

 

The brushes came next. You only owned spoon painting brushes but they should work as well. You carefully put them next to the colors sorted by length. You pulled out your largest bottle of lube and set out to prepare yourself and the brushes thoroughly.

 

You wanted to gift this piece to Vinter, so you wanted it to be good. But you also wanted it to be good for you. You had to be careful with your preparation because on your way back home from school you couldn’t resist your desire to put the rosary back inside where they apparently belonged: in your tight, thicc ass.

 

Once you were able to comfortably fit two fingers inside next to the rosary you were content and moved on to choose the brush you were going to start with. There was such an expansive collection, you were a little nervous but more than a little aroused. Your hands were shaking as you reached out.

 

You chose a medium sized brush and slicked it with lube before pushing it inside gently and carefully. The brush shoved the rosary even further inside, making you moan instantly.

 

You started to understand why Gwythyr loved ass-painting so much. It seemed to be an entertaining and soulful way to paint.

 

The first strokes of the brush on the paper were still hesitant but they soon became more confident. You couldn’t even see what you were drawing or which colors you were using because you obviously didn’t have eyes on the back of your head, so you just let your feelings guide you. It was the purest yet dirtiest form of self expression being conveyed on paper and you were loving it.

 

You groaned a little as the swivel of your hips made the rosary nestle that much more deeply in your supermassive black hole (another twilight reference aha), the cool beads hitting your prostate in the most satisfying way as you created your art. The apartment was filled with the sounds of your panting, and the scraping of the paintbrush and your skin against the paper, being stained with your love.

 

Each stroke of the brush brought shivers of pleasure down your spine, and you had reached a point where the painting itself didn’t matter to you anymore. The only thing that mattered now was your pleasure, but maybe that was the philosophy behind asspainting. It was literally pleasure translated onto paper.

 

You imagined the paint clinging to your legs was Viltor’s hands, his lips, his soft mouth travelling up, up, up. Getting you wetter—wet, wet, wet. Your meat rod was dripping precum onto the paper along with the paint, and you groaned out loud this time, your movements becoming faster, as you rolled your hips against the paintbrush to stimulate yourself further. You were rough and ready.

 

The pleasure, the pain, the art you were creating. Yes—the art you were creating was the most arousing thing in this whole situation. You wrapped your hand around your straining pimmel, stroking it to release the tension a little.

 

You sighed loudly, gingerly dipping your ass into the paint box to grab the most vibrant and expressive blue you could find. You stroked the paper, dotted along the edges. The rosary jostled in between your buns like the anaconda the famous Japanese singer Nik- Ee- Min- Aj had prophesied.

 

“Hah…” you gasped, lubing up another bigger brush, wondering if it would fit beside the other one.

 

It did.

 

Your ass truly was ever expanding. You’d be able to handle Nickktor’s huge dicktor no problem, you thought proudly.

 

Thinking about Vittore’s Dicktor made your own Schwanz ache and beg for release, so you eagerly continued to jerk yourself off. Your movements growing less elegant and graceful, more erratic. You imagined him putting his thingy into your you know what. That seemed to make you even more horny.

 

You only needed a few more strokes on your throbbing horn. With both the brush and your hand until you were finally coming  hard, your back arching in the most tantalizing manner digging the rosary and paintbrush harder against your dripping rectal walls, shooting white stringy cum all over yourself and the drawing.

 

You were seeing holy crosses instead of stars, and screaming out as the white added on to the multitude of colours you had painted. You came hard. So hard that both the paint brush and the rosary fell out of your ass and onto the painting.

 

You were panting heavily and ready to fall back on the painting, but with a groan you realised you could not ruin this masterpiece. Bonelessly, you tried to move. That was the best and most hard hitting orgasm of your life.

 

You tried to steady your breathing. You were too exhausted to do anything right now, so you stepped away from the painting, leaving behind a trail of paint and semen, little blue footprints trailing off the paper, and sat down on the edge of your bed, not caring about the mess you were making right now.

 

After a few more minutes, you were finally able to breathe again, the soft haze of post coital bliss still present but not overwhelmingly so. You lifted your head and looked at the painting just to lose your breath after finally regaining it.

 

You were looking at the most detailed and perfect painting of Vitor you had ever seen in you whole life. His blue eyes staring back at you, crinkled fondly and with the most loving and angelic expression you could have imagined him making. It hit you once again with startling clarity.

 

You were unconditionally and irrevocably in love with him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was inspired by a lot of other fics (Sins of the Flesh Series; Rivals AU and Beside the Dancing Sea) by a lot of lovely people - you should definitely check them out!  
> [Phayte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phayte/pseuds/Phayte)  
> [Reiya/Kazliin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Reiya/pseuds/Reiya)  
> [lily_winterwood](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lily_winterwood/pseuds/lily_winterwood)  
> We love them all with all our heart!!

**Author's Note:**

> This work was inspired by a lot of other fics (Sins of the Flesh Series; Rivals AU and Fanboy) by a lot of lovely people - you should definitely check them out!  
> [Phayte](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Phayte/pseuds/Phayte)  
> [Reiya/Kazliin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Reiya/pseuds/Reiya)  
> [arkhamcycle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/arkhamcycle/pseuds/arkhamcycle)  
> We love them all with all our heart!!
> 
> Find all the authors of High Noon here:  
> [Asce](http://lovelytitania.tumblr.com/)  
> [Clear](http://lyefish.tumblr.com//)  
> [Eve](http://evermoredeath.tumblr.com/)  
> [Lambie](http://father-nikiforov.tumblr.com/)  
> [Lin](http://linnorm.tumblr.com/)  
> [Pine](http://proserpineceres.tumblr.com/)  
> [Seb](http://sebuckwheat.tumblr.com//)


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